


More Than Words

by Cawaiiey



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Eventual relationship, IT'S THE BAND AU THAT EVERY FANDOM HAS TO HAVE, M/M, Pining, Smitten Keith, also pidge uses primarily she/her pronouns in this, also suffering, background relationships: Hunk/Shay and Shiro/Allura and Lance/Nyma and Pidge/Her Keyboard, dumb boys, eventual lance pining, groupie keith, lance's hips don't lie, oblivious idiots, tags to be updated!, there will be angst i promise u that, will not be continued; lack of support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: Music is the language of the soul. Keith wholly believes in that philosophy. He's always been able to hear more than just words in lyrics, more than just chords in music, and this new band speaks so loudly, with so much heart, that he's swept away by their songs, and, more importantly, by their very attractive frontman.





	1. Rock Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO HELLO HELLO!! 
> 
> This is my first fanfiction in the Voltron community!! 
> 
> It's dedicated to one of my best and closest friends, Evan (@ScorchedBagel on twitter and @gothamsprince on tumblr! Follow him he's amazing and cute af) because, whenever we are in the car together, he always relates EVERY SONG TO KLANCE, and... eventually I started doing it too. 
> 
> This entire thing is already mostly planned out so expect weekly updates!! Unsure about how long it will be right now so I hope you like it and stick around for the next chapters!! 
> 
> Without further ado, here's our Voltron band AU~ Enjoy!

Music is the language of the soul.

Keith wholly believes in that philosophy still, even after all these years. He hasn’t performed in months now, though his guitar still sits clean and polished on her stand in the corner. He’ll pick it up every once in a while, to keep himself from getting rusty, but he refuses to play for anyone other than Shiro. His best friend was the only one he trusted enough to hear his guitar’s song nowadays.

It wasn’t that he’d gone through some unimaginable trauma, no. He just felt like he wasn’t good enough to be playing for anyone else, like the songs he plucked from his guitar strings were wasted on ears that weren’t truly listening. Keith played with all his heart, all his soul, and it seemed like the words he spoke through music were lost on most everyone but Shiro. He was content with this, honestly. He still had others’ music to bask in, to understand what they were saying beyond the capacity of the lyrics they crooned out. Keith understood and spoke the language of the soul, and he was fine with others not being able to comprehend what he was saying with every chord he played.

He’s fine, really.

Or, at least, he tells himself he’s fine, when he’s sat cross-legged on the couch of his studio apartment, plucking nonsense melodies, making Red sing under his fingertips. He doesn’t have her plugged into the amp, going acoustic for the moment. It’s just something to do with his hands for the moment, keeping his mind occupied so it doesn’t wander. He knows he shouldn’t be living alone, he’s prone to macabre thoughts if he doesn’t do something, but he’d be damned if he still lived with Shiro, who had recently gained a new roommate.

Allura was beautiful and regal and a perfect match for Shiro, and Keith knew it. He couldn’t help the jealousy that settled like green poison in his veins. He was so used to being able to spend time with Shiro whenever he wanted that he wasn’t sure how to feel about this new addition. And he didn’t  _ dislike _ Allura, no, she was great. More than great, she was perfect. But Shiro, his best friend, was spending more and more time with her, and it seemed like Keith was being shoved to the side in favor of her. It wasn’t exactly a self-esteem booster, especially since she was better than him at pretty much everything. She was prettier than Keith, nicer, more altruistic, and had a better voice than he did (he lamented that last bit often; he could make his guitar sing sweetly but his voice had always been subpar, pitchy. Nothing like the sweet melody that spilled from Allura’s lips). Plus, she was an esteemed business owner.

Keith’s fingers falter on the guitar strings, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance. He shouldn’t linger on thoughts of Shiro and Allura for too long, knowing where his mind tended to run when he was left alone on that train. He takes a deep breath, clearing his head space, before going back to gently playing chords. He’s swept up in concentration, dragging sweet sounds from Red with every pluck of the strings. She’s pliable in his hands, always has been since she was given to him a few years ago. Keith plays a complicated chord, letting her sing sweet praise under his fingertips, and he can’t stop the soft smile that plays on his lips. He starts to hum nonsense while playing accompaniment, distracting himself even more from thoughts of Allura and Shiro an-

“Keith, are you here?” 

_Speak of the fucking devil and he shall come._

He hears the door of his apartment slam open and the familiar voice of his best friend echo through the small apartment. Keith abruptly stops playing, ending Red’s song with a screech that he winces at. He drags a hand through his raven locks, gritting his teeth while he thinks of kicking Shiro out. Not that he would, he’s as wrapped around Shiro’s finger as the man is around Allura’s. The things he would do for his best friend are many and endless.

Keith sets Red aside on the couch, letting his fingers linger longingly on the shiny red body before he shouts out an affirmation to Shiro. “Yeah, over here, on the couch.” He hears the other man toe off his shoes, and come round the corner. He glances up at him, surprised to see the man is rather breathless and looks more excited than he’s ever been before. Keith cocks a brow in question, and Shiro waves his flesh hand about wildly while his prosthetic fingers comb through his white fringe.

“Keith, you’ve gotta get dressed and come with me right now,” Shiro says breathlessly, pointing in the direction of the door. The dark-haired man stares at him for a moment before furrowing his brows and going to shake his head. His best friend is one step ahead of him, though, and immediately goes to shut down any sort of protest he could have possibly given. “You’re coming with me no matter what, no ifs ands or buts. I know you’re not doing anything tonight anyways.”

The dark-haired man gives Shiro a pout, averting his eyes as he grumbles, “you don’t know that. What if I have some sort of hot date tonight?” Shiro’s subsequent laugh makes his cheeks burn red in hot shame. The excuse sounded pitiful to his  _ own  _ ears.

“You and I both know that’s not true. Now, c’mon, let’s get a move on. Go get dressed in something nice, now would you?” Shiro walks over to stand in front of him, hands on his hips, with one hip cocked to the side. Keith glares at him from above his too-long fringe (he needs a haircut, and a shower. He’s been neglecting taking care of himself recently), but it doesn’t have the desired effect. His best friend just rolls his eyes and jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. Keith stands, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his grey sweats, and shuffles his feet where he stands.

“Why can’t I just wear what I have on now?” Keith gripes, even as he makes his way towards the restroom. He doesn’t want to be seen wearing this stuff and he knows it. Clad in ratty old grey sweats and a tank top with some tears in the hem, he wouldn’t dare set foot outside his apartment like this. The only one that could see him in his loungewear was Shiro, seeing as they’d known each other for well over a decade, childhood friends that were as inseparable then as they are now.

“Because you look like a homeless man and I am not taking you out looking like that,” Shiro yells at him from the living room. Keith grumbles and grabs a black tee and well-fitted jeans, plus a pair of red boxers (once again, hasn’t bathed in a bit) and mopily heads to the shower.

He’s tempted to make Shiro wait by taking far too long of a shower, basking in the lukewarm heat of the shower, though the pressure of the old showerhead leaves a lot to be desired, but he knows better than to irritate his best friend. He’s in, washed, and dressed within ten minutes. He brushes his hair out, glaring as the strands stick to his neck and forehead. With a resigned sigh, he grabs a round brush and his blowdryer, refusing to leave his home with wet hair like a heathen. Keith can barely hear Shiro’s demand that he hurry up over the roar of the hair dryer. He rolls his eyes, running the round brush through his fringe to fluff them up sufficiently before tossing it to the side, letting the hair dryer deal with the wetness of the strands on the back of his head. Soon, his hair is dry, and he runs a bit of product through it to style it properly. With a satisfied hum, he sprays his hair with a light hold hair spray.  _ There, perfect _ .

Keith wanders out of his bathroom, taking his time with locating a pair of socks, his belt, and the cropped red jacket with the high collar he usually wears. It’s bisected into two sections of red by a thick yellow stripe in the center of the garment, and the high collar is white, leading down in stripes to the cuffs, which are of the same hue. Shiro glares at him when he moseys back into the living room area from where he’s sat next to Red. Keith leans against the wall, hiking one leg up so he can put on a sock.

“Took you long enough, princess,” Shiro teases, which earns him a stuck out tongue from Keith. The older man rolls his eyes and stands, gingerly picking up Red and putting her back on her stand in the corner of the room. He’s the only other person that can touch her. The dark-haired man pulls his socks on, then slides the belt through the loops on his waistband, and, finally, shrugs his jacket on. Shiro is already padding over to the front door, and Keith follows with no further complaints, knowing it’s just wasted breath at this point. He pulls his red Converse on without undoing the laces, and grabs his house keys from the dirty glass bowl next to the door.  _ Time to get this over with _ .

Shiro takes the steps down two at a time from Keith’s third floor apartment, the owner of said apartment following at a much more lethargic pace. By the time he hits the ground floor, Shiro is already outside of the complex and in his car, the motor purring loudly and the inside of the car already heating up to combat the chilly early November evening air. Keith is in the car within seconds of leaving the complex, never having liked the cold before. It was just too much for his hot-blooded body. Shiro cranks up the radio on a random alternative station, flooding the car with the sound of music, and Keith relaxes into the passenger seat.

He keeps his gaze turned away from Shiro, who is singing softly along to the music blaring from his speakers, and watches the blur of the city lights flash by. The brick and mortar of his neighborhood changes into the metal and concrete jungle of the inner city, neon lights illuminating signs and street corners. With every exhaled breath, the window fogs slightly, obscuring the sight of the city outside. Keith reaches one finger over to draw a crude frown in the on the car window.

Shiro drives fast but carefully, the picture of a safe driver. Keith absentmindedly listens to Shiro’s singing, humming a low harmony in his own throat along with the music. Shiro’s voice wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t phenomenal either. Good enough to be impressive at karaoke. But it was rich and heady to listen to when he put power behind the words, when he wasn’t singing softly in his car. When his best friend wanted to, he could pull goosebumps up from the skin of the people that listened to his song. When he spoke the language of music, he did so with  _ power _ .

Keith doesn’t have long to wax poetic about music or Shiro’s way of speaking it, as they are suddenly pulling into a parking space across the street from a familiar club. He glares at the front of the building, arms crossed in defiance, as Shiro shuts off the radio and the car, quieting the rumble of the motor.

“We’re here,” Shiro sing-songs at him, opening the driver’s side door and letting in the cool air. Even with his jacket on, Keith can’t help the shiver that shakes his body at the sudden chill. He throws open the door and steps out, hunched on himself in an attempt to keep some semblance of warmth, and takes in the sight of the club before him, the purple neon sign casting a violet hue on the street around him.

Allura’s club, ‘Juniberries’, is one of the most popular hotspots for the younger crowd in this city, and Keith has had the pleasure of never being inside it before, having no desire to put up with the people in that sort of situation. Drunk partygoers, horny twenty-somethings grinding on one another, and the pompous assholes that would inevitably flirt with him, only to freak when they realized he was not, in fact, a girl. Just a slightly slender man. Keith’s glare is practically murderous as he stares at the club, a scowl on his lips.

The building is sleek, modern, the exterior a dazzling white, with no windows. The entryway and the sign are the only splashes of color against the white backdrop, both a vibrant purple. Boasting the name ‘Juniberries’ in a pretty curly script, outlined silhouettes of star lilies decorating the end and beginning of the word, the sign is a bright neon thing that draws the eye. The entryway is the same shade of purple, and it leads to a pair of sleek white double doors, the windows of which are tinted a dark color, shielding the inside from prying eyes, though the flash of lights inside the club illuminates the tinted windows every few seconds, hinting at a packed interior of people.

Keith instantly does not want to be here.

“Shiro, you fucking asshole,” he hisses, stomping after his best friend, who is already across the street and walking towards the bouncer stationed at the entrance of the club. He speeds up his pace to reach Shiro before the man can get too far away, reaching out and yanking on the collar of his slate-grey button down. He’s satisfied with the cough and splutter he receives, and even more satisfied when an irritated set of narrowed grey eyes turn on him.

“What is it  _ now _ , Keith?” Shiro sounds exasperated, but there’s an underlying tone of guilt, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and that Keith has zero desire to be in the club he’s brought him to.

Keith sneers at Shiro, waving his hand towards the club, which seems alive with the thrum of the bass, and, despite himself, he can feel it in his  _ core _ . Damn music, always dragging him in, even when he doesn’t want to be there. “You know  _ exactly _ what it is, Takashi,” the use of Shiro’s actual name has the desired effect, as the man winces and pulls back, knowing he’s in trouble now, “I don’t  _ ‘do’ _ clubs, and I certainly don’t do clubs on Saturday nights when everyone and their mother is in there. Take me back home, or I’m  _ walking _ .” He snarls the last bit, watching the flash of surprise in Shiro’s widened eyes before they narrow at him again, and Keith takes a step back, fear pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Like he said before, Shiro has  _ power _ , not only in music, but in personality. And, right now, that power is directed at him, and he feels dwarfed, not only by the few inches that Shiro has on him, but by the shift in his aura.

_ Uh-oh. _

“I can’t believe you’re acting like this, Keith, you’re such a  _ child _ ,” Shiro chastises, grabbing Keith’s arm with his flesh hand to prevent him from running away. Damn bastard knows him too well. “Do you trust me?” Shiro’s eyes have softened from their hardened gaze to a pleading look, and Keith knows he can’t win this fight. He slumps, shaking his arm free from his best friend’s grasp, and sighs heavily. 

“Of course I do,” he glances up to see Shiro’s lips quirk into a small smile, and his heart skips a beat. Childhood crushes never die. “Could you just tell me why we’re here?” Keith pleads and Shiro’s eyes, expressive as always, start to shine with mirth.

“There’s a band here that you  _ have _ to listen to,” Shiro proclaims proudly, his hands back on his hips. Keith stares at him dumbly, feeling absolutely defeated, and heaves another sigh. Now he  _ really _ can’t leave, not when Shiro wanted to introduce him to a band. If anyone knew about Keith’s obsession with music, it was Takashi Shirogane. And when he heard a good band, he always introduced Keith to them, albeit usually with a CD or a music video. It was odd for him to take him to a live show like this, unless they were an underground band and hadn’t released anything yet, digital or otherwise. He wonders what type of group they are, and how impressive they were for Shiro to be so excited.

“Come on, Keith!” Shiro calls out from where he’s stood next to the door, the bouncer standing intimidatingly next to him. He walks over, dragging his feet, and fishes his wallet from his pocket to flash his ID (21 for, like, three years now, and he still looks like a teenager), and following Shiro inside when the bouncer gives them a nod.

The inside smells like alcohol and sweat, the dance floor a writhing throng of people grinding on each other. Decorated much like the outside, the interior boasts a similar color scheme of shades of violet, silvers, and whites. The bar is set off to the right-hand side, with two or three bartenders behind the white marbled countertops, littered with empty glasses and used napkins. All of the barstools are occupied by people or crowds of people, all chattering and drinking and laughing. Along the outer edge of the interior are various white circular tables with plush royal purple loveseats wrapped around them, all of them occupied. The ceiling is high, and the rafters hold strobe lights, splashing colors along the wall with every beat of the bass drum. Speaking of the drums, the beat thrums inside of Keith already, coaxing him to relax a bit, even around all of these people. Shiro is already walking ahead of him, making a beeline towards where Allura likely is, and Keith follows while still marveling at the interior of the club.

The walls, high and imposing, are white and decorated with silhouettes of star lilies towards the border, another signature of Juniberries, Keith is realizing. He likes the brightness of the interior, and the juxtaposition of the dark shades of purple against the backdrop of white. It’s all very regal, and it looks far too fancy to be a night club. Yet, here it is, entertaining throngs of young people with infectious beats from the speakers set in alcoves along the walls. And, in the center, down a small set of stairs, is the dance floor, slightly depressed into the ground. It looks like a pit, in some way. Keith entertains the thought of throwing himself into the pit for a moment, imagining the club-goers as terrifying creatures, though he waves that thought away with a hand. Overlooking the pit, on the far side, opposite from the entrance, is a stage, upon which are six individuals all chatting with each other. Keith can’t get a good look at them, but he assumes it’s the band that Shiro wanted to show him. They don’t head any closer to the stage, unfortunately. Instead, they’re heading away from the club area to a quieter back room, the thrumming bass abandoning Keith as the door closes behind them and the music muffles.

Shiro leads him to Allura’s office area, his pace quickening, and Keith has to suppress a roll of his eyes at his best friend’s puppy-like behavior. He hangs back a bit when Shiro opens up the office door, hearing Allura’s delighted squeal, which is quickly muffled. He knows what they’re doing and he’s not about to peek his head in and interrupt them. Plus, even after all these years, his childhood crush still makes him a little jealous, and he’s not about to awaken the green monster settled in his stomach.

After a few moments of awkwardly standing outside of the office, Shiro peeks his head out of the doorway, burgundy lipstick smeared on his lips, and grins at Keith. “Come on in, Allura would love to see you again.” Keith snorts derisively (“that’s a good shade on you” he mutters under his breath, catching the pink of Shiro’s cheeks as his eyes widen), but enters the room anyways. He watches as Allura freshens her lipstick with a pearl-colored compact, swiping the burgundy hue across her full lips with practiced ease. She snaps the compact closed with a smack of her lips, her brilliant cyan eyes sliding over to Keith as a grin splits her painted lips. Keith gives an awkward wave, watching as she walks around her desk.

She looks like a fucking goddess, dressed in a shimmery white gown that has a long slit up the side, exposing her cocoa-colored legs as she walks, the tap of her tall opalescent heels loud in the otherwise quiet room. The gown has a sweetheart neckline for the opaque portion, and the sleeves and collar area are translucent tulle that shines like diamonds when it catches the light just right. Her mass of platinum hair is done up into a loose bun, her fringe parted in the center, with tendrils of white hair shaping either side of her heart-shaped face. Keith thinks of her standing next to Shiro, who is clad in a grey button-down, a black waistcoat, a purple tie, and nicely fitted black slacks, plus those black and white spats, and thinks  _ fuck _ they are  _ perfect _ for each other. A goddess and her adonis. Keith suddenly feels vastly underdressed.

“Keith!” Allura calls out, her accented voice smooth like the way she walks, and Keith is helpless to be swept up into a hug, which he returns, albeit awkwardly. After an embrace that lasts far too long for Keith, Allura pulls back to inspect him, her teal eyes twinkling happily. What is with these attractive people and their expressive eyes? Surely his own slate grey eyes don’t give him away this much, right? Not that he would know, or that anyone would tell him if he asked. Keith scowls a bit, drawing a frown from Allura as well.

“What, not happy to see me?” She teases, bopping him on the forehead with one manicured finger. He huffs, averting his eyes and shaking her hands off his shoulders. Keith grabs at his elbow, crossing one arm over his chest and rocking back on his heels, feeling self-conscious beside these two people who are probably deities that have come to earth. His favorite jacket feels dingy in comparison to Allura’s gown, or to Shiro’s pressed slacks.

“Shoulda told me it was formal night,” he grumbles, to which Allura laughs, a tinny sound that Keith can imagine would cure cancer if they found out how to bottle it up and inject it. He smiles despite himself, watching as she covers her mouth with one hand and gently pushes his shoulder with the other. She looks happy. He hopes she’s happy.

When her giggles die down, she starts to busy herself with various things around the office, talking to Keith all the while. “Oh no, it’s not a formal night, I just need to look in tip-top shape as proprietor of this establishment,” she explains while digging through a desk drawer, her filled in brows furrowed in concentration, “oh, blast, where is that darn thing? Keith, I have heard you’re something of a music connoisseur, and Shiro said that you would love to hear the band that I’ve been having play here as regulars. So I said he should bring you in, and, now, here we are!” She lets out a little ‘ah-ha!’ and emerges with business card that she immediately gives to Keith. He eyes the piece of cardstock with one brow cocked.

“That’s the band’s social media and name,” she says, sounding like a mother showing off her children. Keith feels the corners of his mouth twitch up as he flips the card over to read the information on it, amused by Allura’s behavior. He stares at the name for a moment, brows furrowing as he tries to pronounce it.

“Queen-tess-ance?” He says, tripping over every syllable, and looking at Allura for help. What type of name was this? Shiro is hiding a smile with his prosthetic hand, looking thoroughly tickled by this situation. Keith makes it a note to get him back for it later.

She smiles benevolently, correcting his pronunciation with practiced ease, as if she’s said this word a thousand times before, “no, like, the end of harlequin, and ‘essence’. Quintessence.” She claps her hands together and beams at Keith, who can’t help but smile back. Kind of a pompous name, if you asked him, but, hey, he’d listened to bands with weirder names. Just seeing the name actually excited him, curiosity piquing his interest in what type of band this was, and what music they played. Despite being wholly against being here in the club, he had to admit that the prospect of a band was more than enough to make up for the atmosphere that he wasn’t used to.

Shiro glances at his watch, his surprised “oh!” bringing Keith out of his headspace. Allura locks eyes with Shiro and gives a nod, her smile dropping momentarily, long enough for Keith to notice it, before it’s back on her lips, blindingly radiant. He narrows his eyes in suspicion at the pair. He just  _ knows _ that something is up.

“Time to get out now,” Allura says all too quickly, forcefully turning Keith around and pushing him towards the door, “I am very busy and I have a lot of things to do, so, enjoy the club, drink a little, have some  _ fun _ , and, more than anything,” she’s suddenly right next to his ear, voice low enough that only he could hear, “enjoy the band.”

“Wha--” He starts, before he’s suddenly being shoved out of the office by Allura’s hands on his back, Shiro holding the door open so his girlfriend can deposit the dark-haired man outside. Keith whips around, bewildered, as his best friend shares a soft kiss with Allura, and then steps outside of the office as well, calling a goodbye over his shoulder. His smile is dopey, and Keith glares at Shiro for a few long moments, pinning the taller man in place. He gets a stuck out tongue in return, shocking him enough to leave him stuck where he stood as Shiro goes around him to head back towards the main club area. He was unused to seeing his best friend act like that, so carefree and silly. Normally, the man was the epitome of seriousness, which was a stark contrast to the man in front of him now. Allura had changed him, and, if he admits it to himself, he knows it’s for the better. Only Shiro’s sharp whistle from the other side of the hall got him to snap out of his train of thought.

Begrudgingly, he turns and walks down the hall, listening as the music crescendos louder and louder the closer he gets to the door. The bass starts to throb inside of him again. The familiarity of music soothes him once more as it settles in his bones, a content smile gracing his features. Shiro grins at him, and he returns the expression, forgetting about Allura’s words in favor of thinking about the band that was likely setting up onstage. He wants to hear their music, to understand their conversation. He wonders what type of music they speak with; is it with the  _ power _ that Shiro has, or the regality that Allura offers, or is it more like the quiet language of Keith’s guitar? The knowledge that he’ll be learning another band’s dialect has him smiling in anticipation that only grows when Shiro opens the door to the regular club once again.

It hasn’t changed much in the club area, perhaps the music has switched beats, though the only thing that stands out is the bass line anyways. Keith follows his older friend across the room and down into the dance pit, carefully weaving his way through people as he tries to avoid being groped and grinded against. Shiro is obviously pawed at as he walks through the crowd, evident in the tenseness of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Keith pities him, but also damns his good looks at the same time. Then his own ass gets pawed at and he decides, fuck it, you could be a literal cactus in this crowd and still get groped.

They end towards the front of the pit, having to crane their necks a bit to look up at where the stage is. It doesn’t tower over them, the dance floor is only depressed into the ground by a couple of feet, but it’s enough that, to get a good look, you have to tilt your head. Keith squints in the direction of the stage, trying to get a good look at the band members. From here, he can see six people; what looks like five band members and one tech. He pushes himself up onto his tiptoes, bracing his arm on Shiro’s shoulder as he gains some leverage.

The first person he notices is the drummer, who is testing his kit with light taps of bright orange drumsticks. He’s  _ big _ , but he looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly, and his skin reminds him of cocoa powder, with slightly shaggy black hair on top of his head. His arms are muscular, the tell-tale sign of a long-time drummer, and his hands dwarf the sticks in his hands. Keith likes the green vest he has on, and how it contrasts with his three-quarter sleeve shirt that is a vibrant yellow. There’s an orange headband tied around his forehead, likely to collect sweat when he’s in the groove. Stage lights can be so warm. He’s sat behind his drum kit that matches his shirt in shade, an amalgamation of warm hues.  _ Like the sun, _ Keith thinks fondly, as the other man grins when the sound of his drums is to his liking,  _ definitely the sun _ .

He glances off to the right to see the bassist standing there, her fingers turning the tuning keys on the headstock with practiced ease. She’s tall, very much so, and a thicker girl. She’s wearing big gold hoop earrings that her fluffy bob obscures slightly. Her forest green tank top is accented with a tan and white plaid overshirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to her elbows on either side, exposing caramel-colored skin. Her bass is a cute mint green, with a feather pattern along the outer edge of the pickguard. She’s focused on her tuning, eyes closed as she plucks at the strings with long fingernails.Those acid-washed jeans that she has on compliment her long, thick legs,that lead down into a pair of moss-green sneakers. Keith likes her style a lot, it reminds him of the earth and the scent of pine trees.

Next to the bassist is a pianist who is setting up their keyboard. From here, there’s really no defining features about them that Keith can use to guess at what gender they portray. They’re smaller than anyone else on the band, and the low positioning of their keyboard shows it. It’s an electric one, that’s preset with all the different sounds, and they are staring at the keys intently, lips pursed while they tap one after another. Their hair is a dull auburn mess on their head, chunks of their fringe haphazardly styled with a large section of their fringe laying dead center on their face, while two strands curl inward on either side of their face. They’re wearing a baggy sweatshirt with a high collar, the collar and sleeve cuffs boasting an orange hem, while the rest of their sweatshirt is bright green or white, a geometric pattern dividing the white and the green sections. The way their hair is swept up behind them makes Keith think of air, flighty and wild.

Opposite where the bassist and the pianist are, there’s the guitarist and the tech of the group. They’re engaged in quiet conversation while the tech tunes her sunshine yellow guitar. She’s tall and slender, sporting a teal crop top and a maxi-skirt of a similar hue that’s open with long slits on either side. Her hair hangs around her face in thick dreads, with silver beads strung periodically through every strand. Her skin is like dark chocolate, and her eyelids are painted a pale yellow, her lips are full and pouty, pretty pink standing out against her skintone. She’s gorgeous, and Keith can’t help but let his gaze linger on her for a moment before he drags his eyes over to the guitar tech. That man is also tall, just as much as the guitarist, and muscular to boot. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and a blue-grey vest, the fabric of the tee stretched teasingly around the curve of his biceps. His hair, dyed platinum, is barely visible underneath his brown beanie. The only reason Keith knows it’s dyed is because of the dusting of light brown hair on the man’s chiseled chin. The tech may be attractive, but there’s something about his shifty eyes that Keith doesn’t like, doesn’t trust, which he shakes off, realizing that he’s being silly. They’re just band members, he shouldn’t have such knee-jerk reactions about them.

With a start, he realizes he hasn’t seen their frontman yet, and he whips his head from side to side looking for the person. His brow furrows as he realizes the sixth person has disappeared while he took stock of the other members, and he purses his lips, disappointed that he hasn’t seen the singer. They tend to have more presence than the other band members, though, with a wry smile, he realizes all of these characters probably have a different way of speaking through their music. Keith settles back on his heels, relaxing the arches of his feet from being up on his tiptoes for so long. The crowd around them convulses, and Keith grits his teeth, focusing on the feel of the bass-line in his center. Shiro gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and Keith can feel a bit of tension seep from him at the familiarity.  _ Easy, Keith, easy, the band should be starting soon _ , he tells himself, taking a steadying breath in through his nose. He keeps an eye on the stage, watching the group plug their amps in and get set up completely.

The bassist and the drummer share a quick kiss before taking up their positions, and Keith can’t hide the soft smile that he gets at the sight.  _ Cute _ , he thinks happily, always taking a secret pride in interpersonal band relationships. Like the music had brought them together, and they were able to understand each other’s dialect. The bass and drums played off one another usually, the drum beat matching up with the bass line, and the added complement of the people playing those instruments matching up with  _ each other _ just makes the music even sweeter to listen to.

Even with every other band member in place, the frontman  _ still  _ hasn’t shown up, leaving four band members on stage, as the tech has left the stage to stand off to the side, and an empty mic stand. All of the members look bored, like this usually happens, not a hint of nervousness on any of their faces. In fact, the drummer even yawns, pressing the back of one large hand to his open mouth to stifle the sound. Keith seems to be the only person that is watching the group on stage, as the rest of the crowd pulses to the music from the speakers, which is starting to die down. He hopes the club-goers will actually pay attention to the live entertainment once it begins, as he has no respect for people who don’t respect artists. Shiro checks his watch and turns to give Keith a grin and a nod, which makes Keith’s pulse jump in anticipation.  _ Finally _ .

The music from the speakers finally quiets down completely, and the people in the club seem to slowly take notice, the crowd around him finally ceasing their swaying and turning to face the stage. A few people whistle loudly, and others cheer.  _ Looks like it isn’t their first show _ . Keith wonders how he hasn’t heard of this band before. He also wonders where the fuck their frontman is, as there’s  _ still _ an empty mic stand on stage.

Allura’s voice replaces the music blaring from the speakers, echoing melodically throughout the room, “good evening to everyone here tonight at Juniberries!” Her words garner a few drunken hoots and hollers from various corners of the room. “I am sure most of you know of our special guests that come in every now and then to play for us. Once again, I am proud to welcome back our wonderful regulars, Quintessence! Everyone, give them a round of applause!” Shiro begins to clap excitedly next to him, as the deafening roar of the club cheering fills his eardrums. Keith winces, ducking down and pressing his hands to his ears to try and soften the sounds assaulting him. He wishes the thrum of the bass was still there, but it isn’t, and he just has to grit his teeth through the cheers as the lights on the stage come on completely, and the crowd finally quiets.

He lifts his head up from where he’d hidden himself, and blinks owlishly up at the stage. The mic stand is finally occupied with a lanky boy with a thatch of thick brown hair on his head, who is practically glowing under the stage lights. He looks like he belongs there, with his stance wide and his hands wrapped around the microphone. He’s wearing baggy blue jeans and ratty sneaks, a grey v-neck shirt, and an olive green jacket with a white hoodie. Even though his outfit is so plain, he commands the stage. Keith stares, unable to wrench his eyes away from the man with caramel-colored skin and a grin so wide and vibrant that it rivaled the  _ stars _ . He takes in a sharp breath, pressing one hand to his heart, as the man holds up four long fingers, and counts down with the click of the drummer’s sticks.

The first beat is of the bass drum, and it counts out the basic four measures, with the bassist playing two notes for every beat. The pianist pulls techno sounds from their keys with each practiced stroke, and the guitarist seems to have a sound effect on their instrument as well, as she makes her guitar sing chords. All-in-all, it’s a basic club song, and Keith feels disappointed as they play a measure, having expected more from the band that Shiro wanted to show him. He lets the tension leave him, slouching a bit where he stands, and closes his eyes. He can’t hear what they’re trying to say. Everyone’s having a different conversation with their instruments, they’re not in sync with each other. It’s all out of harmony; not the sounds, no, they  _ sound _ fine, but Keith can’t hear anything special about them. He’s about to tell Shiro that he wants to leave when the frontman open his mouth and sings.

Oh  _ god _ , is it a song.

“ _ Don’t be so quick to, walk away, uh, dance with me. I wanna rock your body, please stay, uh, dance with me, _ ” the frontman belts out into the microphone, his voice honeyed and sweet. Keith is rigid, head snapping up as his eyes widen at the sight before him. The frontman doesn’t just  _ command  _ the stage, no, he  _ owns _ it. He’s swaying his hips from side-to-side and singing like he was born to do it. His voice is pitched up a bit in a falsetto, but he still hits notes effortlessly, no evidence of being pitchy in his tone. And his lyrics shift everyone else’s instruments into sync, harmonizing completely, as if he was the missing ingredient. Keith can’t look away, not even if he wanted to, and he  _ definitely  _ doesn’t want to. Not from this.

“ _ You don’t have to admit you wanna play, uh, dance with me. Just let me rock you, until the break of day, uh, dance with me, _ ” he croons into the microphone, and Keith is  _ enthralled _ in the slight husk there, in his stage presence. The crowd around him have all begun to dance again, grinding on one another, oblivious to his state of mind. Shiro is giving him a sly look that Keith notices out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t acknowledge him. Leaning forward, he stares, feeling the his core grow warm as their song vibrates up from the ground into his body, and he wants to close his eyes in pure bliss at the feeling, but he doesn’t dare look away for an instant.

The band stops abruptly, letting their frontman sing a capella for a moment, and his voice is powerful enough to carry the song for a few beats before the rest of the band joins in again, “ _ got time but I don’t mind _ ,” he sings during the pause, and then the guitar slides in again and the drummer sets up the back beat, “ _ just wanna rock you girl _ ,” he takes the mic off the stand and walks around to stand in front of it, rolling his hips in a fluid motion that Keith can’t help but gape at. The club-goers cheer, though they sound far away in Keith’s ears.

Their frontman reaches towards the crowd with one outstretched hand and a wink. Keith’s heart leaps into his throat, that handsome face far too gorgeous under the stage lights, “ _ I’ll have whatever you have, _ ” he pulls his hand back and spins on one foot, voice a bit warbled when he sings the next line, “ _ c’mon, let’s give it a whirl _ ,” Keith has never been one for dancing, but the frontman’s voice almost compels him to, in accompaniment with the backbeat, “ _ see I’ve been watching you, and I like the way you move _ ,” their frontman saunters over to the guitarist, who is the same height as he is, and drags his fingers along her sharp jaw line, which earns him a pair of pursed painting pink lips in his direction, and Keith feels his pulse jump as ice settles in his veins. He quashes the feeling, internally chastising himself for baseless jealousy. He’d just never heard someone so  _ fluent _ with music before, and he couldn’t help the instinctual attraction he felt to this man that he’d never met before.

“ _ So go 'head, girl, just do, that ass shakin' thing you do, _ ” the frontman shimmies his shoulders and swings his hips and Keith’s jaw drops, completely enamored by the performance. It’s not his usual type of music, and this isn’t his usual scene, but the music pulsates in his system, injected into his veins, leaving his fingertips tingling with excitement. The drums, the bass, the guitar, the piano, and, to bring it all together, that  _ voice _ ; it all combines together into one living breathing language, five souls speaking in harmony through their instruments, and Keith is witness to all of it. The rest of the crowd is dancing around him, though he’s stock still in the center of it all, having an experience like no other. The band slides into the bridge smoothly, with not a single hiccup in their playing.

The frontman extends his hand forward again and clenches a fist, pulling it back towards his chest, “ _so you grab your girls and you grab a couple more,_ ” Keith hears shrieks of giggles around him, and then the pit is practically packed with people on all sides of him, all gyrating to the beat of the bass drum, “ _and you all can meet me in the middle of the floor,_ ” the throng of people practically suffocates him, which would be a problem if he wasn’t already breathless, “ _said the air, it’s thick, it’s smellin’ right,_ ” he takes in a gulping breath, inhaling the scent of sweat, the sickening sweetness of perfumes and colognes intermingling with the bitter tang of alcohol, and feels dizzy from the sensation, “ _so you pass to the left_ ,” he points a finger towards the left side of the room, all the club-goers letting out a cheer as he does so, “ _then you sail to the right_ ,” he slides on his sneaks towards the right side of the room, gaining a cheer from that portion as well. He’s got them all wrapped around his finger, Keith included.

He dips into the chorus, bopping and swaying, sidling up to the guitarist, back-to-back with the bassist, throwing the mic stand from side-to-side like a modern day Elvis Presley, all while Keith stares in awe, a blossom of admiration blooming in his chest. He wants to drown himself in the notes they play, in the vibrato from the frontman’s lips, to submerge himself under the waves of the bass, swallow down the beats of the drum. He already feels like he’s drowning, choking in the thick air of the club, as it fills his throat and lungs. Keith’s got tunnel vision, focused only entirely on the stage and, more specifically, the frontman and his commanding stage presence. How can one person take such control of the stage, of  _ him _ ? He’s never experienced such a violent reaction to someone’s music like this before. And it’s not even a song with much substance, more like bubble gum than actual meat, and he’s still reacting like this. He can’t imagine how he’d react to heartfelt words spilling from the frontman’s lips.

He thinks he could die then and be happy with it.

The bassist slides on a note as the frontman  _ physically  _ slides to the side, moving on to the second verse with practiced ease. He bounces on his feet and steps towards the front of the stage while crooning into the microphone, “ _ I don’t mean no harm, just wanna rock you girl _ ,” he turns to give the guitarist a lascivious grin, and she smiles back, all lip and no teeth, “ _ we could move, but we don’t, let’s go, let’s give it a whirl _ ,” he repeats what he did when he last sang that line, with a spin on one foot, and stops to face the pit. Keith watches as his eyes hood and he tilts his head upward, a smirk on his lips, and his heart stops beating. Even though he knows that he knows the frontman cannot possibly be looking at him, he feels like he is, like that gaze is for him and him alone. His stomach twists nervously.

“ _ See, it appears to me that you like the way I move, _ ” Keith sucks in a breath, his heart beating double time, banging against his ribcage. Those lyrics, they aren’t for  _ him _ , but, god, they could be. His face is warm, and he has a feeling it’s not just from the stifling body heat radiating from everyone around him. “ _ I tell you what I’m gon’ do, _ ” the frontman sings, his voice dropping an octave, as he raises the hand not holding the microphone to push back his hair a bit, and  _ fuck _ , Keith is obsessed. With his music, with his stage presence, his look, dialect, with  _ everything _ , especially his voice, “ _ pull you close and share my groove _ ,” and even more so when it’s singing words like  _ that _ . The frontman’s eyes slip close as he shakes his hips from side-to-side, that smirk widening while he goes into the bridge, and then the familiar chorus.

As the chorus ends for the third time, the guitarist makes her way over to the mic stand, where the frontman has put the microphone again. Keith’s eyebrows shoot up as she opens her mouth and starts to sing, his jaw hitting the floor once more. He should have guessed that there would be more than one singer in the group, but he would have never guessed that their voices would complement each other so well. It starts as a back and forth, with the guitarist singing sweetly first, and with the frontman’s sung replies back.

“ _ Talk to me boy _ ,” she trills, “ _ no disrespect, I don’t mean no harm _ ,” comes the reply, and she sings the same line again as a response, prompting a, “ _ I can’t wait to have you in my arms. _ ” She repeats herself once more, and their frontman croons back, “ _ hurry up, cause you’re taking too long _ ,” with a husky vibe to the last word. The guitarist responds with the same line one last time, and the frontman grabs her hip and pulls her as close as he can with the instrument in between them, “ _ bet I’ll have you naked by the end of this song _ .”

The crowd is filled with squeals as the gyrating reaches a fever pitch, and the pair on stage continue to sing, their voices hitting a slightly higher octave as the music shifts to match their pitch. He starts first, singing the lyrics at her as she harmonizes back at the end of his lines, until the last set, where they match up completely and harmonize as one. Keith’s eyes flick back and forth between the duo, one staring with hunger in his eyes, and the other looking back with mischievousness in hers.

“ _ So what did you come here for? _ ” He croons at her, leaning a bit closer but avoiding the way her fingers dance along the strings of her guitar.

“ _ I came to dance with you _ .” She leans forward as well, and the frontman leans back a bit, a game of cat and mouse that they seem to play often.

“ _ You don’t wanna hit the floor? _ ” The lyrics are so intimate, so playful, like long-time lovers teasing each other.

“ _ Get some romance with you _ .” She lilts, tilting her head a bit and getting closer to the microphone, closer to the frontman. Keith feels the pit of his stomach drop.

“ _ Been searching for love evermore _ .” He gets a bit closer to the mic as well, hooded gaze on the guitarist and the guitarist only. Keith chews on his lower lip, a faint blush rising to his cheeks, and he’s not even the one being sang to right now.

“ _ I’ll take a chance _ !” She teases back, and they are so close together their noses could be touching.

“ _ If love is here on the floor, girl _ !” They snap apart, and the frontman claps out two beats while the guitarist sways her hips while walking back to her original position.

Keith releases a breath  he didn’t know he’d been holding, feeling suddenly ashamed. He burns a bit where he’s stood, face flushing as he imagines himself up there instead of the guitarist. He’s hopelessly enamored, seduced by their music, by the frontman especially, and he’s loving every second of it, even with the green monster gnawing at his insides.

The bassist plucks at her strings, pulling low notes out, the rest of the band quieting down a bit as the frontman drops his voice low, his tone shifting from lilting to conversational, still breathy and, Keith is loathe to admit, slightly erotic. “ _ Yeah, dance with me _ ,” he says into the microphone, and a couple making out bumps into Keith, which he should be irritated about, but he’s too busy covering the lower half of his face to really notice, “ _ yeah, come on baby _ .” If the lights hadn’t been flashing different colors, the entire club would notice that Keith was the human equivalent of a tomato. Their frontman could pull reactions from him that he wasn’t aware he could even  _ have _ .

They swing back into the chorus, then the guitarist sways over to do another small duet portion, and, finally, the song starts to wind down, and Keith is left a blushing, weak-kneed mess, as their frontman croons into the microphone for the last few times. His voice is enthralling, dropped low like this, and the lyrics he sings are like bedroom talk. “ _ I was just thinkin’ of you _ ,” he whispers, those eyes sliding from the crowd over to the guitarist, “ _ we could do somethin’. I like the way you look right now, _ ” and she gives him a wink and a slight smile, Keith burns with something other than embarrassment, “ _ come over here baby _ .”

He’s vaguely aware of Shiro’s hand on the small of his back, keeping him upright, and he leans into his best friend. The frontman is staring into the crowd, beckoning people forward with a lithe finger. “ _ Are you feelin’ me, _ ” he breathes out, Keith lets out a garbled noise because  _ oh god _ he is, “ _ let’s do somethin’, _ ” the music in his veins could kill him, he realizes, and he wouldn’t even care, “ _ let’s make a bet, _ ” the drummer has stopped, as has the guitarist, and the pianist, only the bassist and the frontman continuing to speak on stage, “ _ cause I bet I’ll have you naked by the end of this song _ !”

The music cuts out completely, the crowd roars their assent, and Keith covers his entire face as Shiro hugs him to his side. His best friend was right, he  _ had  _ had to see this band, and he had the distinct feeling that he was going to be coming back for every single one of their shows, especially if the frontman continued to sing like  _ that _ . He peeked through his fingers up at the stage, watching the band all high-five each other with hoots and hollers, his eyes zeroing in on their frontman, who was basking in the glow of the stage lights with sweat glistening on his skin.

He looked ethereal. Keith had never been a religious man, but, fuck if that wasn’t an angel up there on the stage, singing his commandments, and he was more than willing to start worshipping Quintessence. Shiro next to him was the only thing grounding him to this moment, as the band set up for their next song, and proceeded to play the night away, with Keith hanging on every word they spoke, be it with their instruments or with their voices, lighting the building afire with their music.

The night ends with Keith in flames. 

 


	2. Obsessive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is... a little obsessed with Quintessence. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUYS SORRY ABOUT THE LONG WAIT.
> 
> I feel like this chapter took me forever, ahh, I'm so sorry!!! It's another 9k, but it's mostly exposition. Lotsa building on Keith and his (obsessive) love for Quintessence. It might be a lil grueling to get through, so I apologize beforehand!! 
> 
> Good luck!

He burned, and burned, and  _ burned _ until there was nothing left but ash in the early morning light, as he collapsed into the passenger seat of Shiro’s car, helpless to replay the entire night over and over again behind his eyelids. Visions of caramel skin, wide grins, and the sound of a sweet voice crooning in his eardrums colored the drive home. He heard Shiro’s voice in the distance, saying something to him, but he couldn’t be bothered to absorb  _ what _ was being said. Not when he was floating off of the high that was Quintessence’s performance. He’d stayed for the entire set, craving the pulse of the music in his veins, and refused to leave until the band finished their final song, until they abandoned the stage, until the club-goers all trickled out, until Shiro had led him out of the club with an arm around his middle.

Keith hadn’t even drank anything but he still felt intoxicated, drunk off the night’s energy. He stared out of the window, unseeing, as the early dawn sun began to illuminate the sky from its perch below the horizon, splashing the horizon with soft yellows that bleed into warm pinks, lighting up the clouds like cotton candy. He closes his eyes against the sunlight, a dopey smile on his face, as the car takes him through familiar streets and backroads that he knows just by the feel of the car rocking over bumps. They roll to a stop in front of his apartment complex, the warmth leaving the car as Shiro switches off the ignition, but not even the chill could affect the heat that had settled in his bones, down to the very marrow. His best friend shakes his shoulder, which Keith responds to with a blissed-out hum, even as the older man sighs in mock-exasperation and gets out of the car.

He almost eats the pavement when the door opens, having been slouched against it as he was. Keith manages to stop himself by gripping the seat belt that was now uncomfortably digging into his stomach, glaring in Shiro’s general direction while said man began laughing almost uncontrollably. “Jackass,” he mutters under his breath, which earns him a bout of fresh giggles. Suppressing a smile, he struggles to sit up and undo his seat buckle so he doesn’t get a fresh taste of gravel. Shiro seems to take pity on him as a pair of hands push him back upright, and he grumbles a thanks over his shoulder while undoing his buckle. Shiro is still laughing quietly off to the side while Keith is sobering up, slowly but surely. He slips out of the car and into the cold autumn air, scrunching his nose up at the way it nips his nose.  _ Heat is necessary,  _ he thinks bitterly while half-jogging up to the entrance of his apartment complex, hands stuffed as best as they could be in the small pockets of his too-tight jeans. At least they made him look good, even if they were impractical.

Shiro follows at a more leisurely pace, even as Keith opens the door and hops into the warmer lobby of the complex, his shoulders relaxing slightly in delight at the lack of chill present. Even in a shit apartment complex like this, the heating was still better than the under fifty degree weather that was determined to bite at his skin. He pats his face with his hands, trying to rush warmth back into his cheeks, while his brain supplies how heated he’d been when watching Quintessence earlier. His mind jumps to vivid thoughts of the frontman, swaying and crooning into the microphone with his voice, so full of fervor and feeling. Keith’s face, neck, and even the top of his chest flushes at the memories, falling into a revere filled with the performance. He doesn’t realize he’s been zoning out, hands pressed to his reddened cheeks, until Shiro waves his prosthetic hand in front of his face and leans down to lock eyes with him.

Keith starts, jolting backward with a sharp inhale, and averts his eyes from the smug expression that forms on his best friend’s stupidly attractive face. The look on his face… He was tempted to smack it off. Resisting only by stuffing his hands into his pockets, he turns his nose up at Shiro and stomps over to the stairwell, acutely aware of the chuckles behind him as his friend follows.  _ Asshole _ , Keith thinks bitingly, though there’s really no malice behind it. He knows he’s acting like a schoolboy with a crush (he doesn’t have a  _ crush _ ; he’s simply enamored with the way they spoke through their music, it’s not a crush. It’s not.) but he won’t hesitate to fight Shiro on it if he tries to call him out. Quintessence was just a really good band, that’s all. Really good. Fantastic, even, or maybe awe-inducing. Soulful. Absolutely brilliant. And that frontman, holy shit--

“Keith, look, I know that you liked the show, but seriously, keep it in your pants,” Shiro chides, a smirk on his lips, as Keith snaps back into the present once more, the heat below his skin traveling from his cheeks down to his neck. His best friend is already up on the first landing, and he hasn’t moved from the bottom step, having stepped back into his headspace. He tucks himself back into the high-collar of his jacket, trying to hide his reddened complexion in the fabric to no avail, as Shiro’s lips split to reveal a blinding, infuriating grin. The look that he shoots back at him can be described as no less than scathing.

He takes the steps two at a time, feeling the burn in his quads with every stair that passed. The tiredness of being up for almost twenty-four hours was starting to weigh on him, the adrenaline from the concert starting to seep out the closer that he got to the third landing, where Shiro was already waiting with the door to the hallway held open. Keith grumbles under his breath when he finally hits the third landing, his body screaming at him in protest at the lack of sleep he had. Even with the adrenaline from the show (which was rapidly leaving him, his eyelids starting to droop and his feet dragging along the carpet of the hallway), he couldn’t help the sluggish feeling that came with being awake for so long. He wasn’t a teenager anymore.

Shiro walks him over to the door of his apartment, watching as Keith fumbles with the key that he keeps in his wallet, before finally taking pity on him and unlocking the door with the copy of the key he had. His studio apartment never looked so inviting before. He’s about to go inside and make his home beneath the covers when Shiro stops him with a hand on his shoulder, which he glances at before turning to lock eyes with his best friend, an inquisitive eyebrow arched in a silent question. The older man still looks smug, but Keith is too tired to respond with much else than a slight scowl, though it doesn’t deter his best friend, seeing as there’s really no venom in the expression. All bark and no bite.

“Thanks for coming, Keith. I’m proud of you for taking a chance with this band,” Shiro praises him, face softening into one of gentleness, and Keith preens slightly at the words, “y’know, you could do what they do. Play for people again.” Keith’s face falls from the slight smile he had into a disappointed frown, brows furrowed, and Shiro scrambles to amend his statement, tripping over his words, “well, I mean, when you’re ready, of course. You’re just as good as they are, Keith, you have so much power in your songs,  _ you _ could make people feel the way  _ you  _ feel like Quintessence does,” his voice has taken on a pleading tone, his grip on Keith’s shoulder almost vice-like, and there’s desperation in his eyes. He glares at his best friend and shakes his shoulder to get his hand off of him, feeling his stomach twist with anxiety at the way that handsome face falls.

“You know I won’t do that, Shiro,” he replies quietly, watching his frown reflected back at him on a much more handsome visage, “no one else can hear it the way that I do. You’re the only one I’ll play for.” Shiro’s lips pull into a deeper scowl. Keith just holds back a sigh. They’ve had this conversation before, multiple times, and it always ends the same.

“Keith, you have a gift. You’re one of the best guitarists I know, why won’t you let other people hear that?” Shiro’s voice has raised an octave, flashes of irritation evident in those stormy eyes that Keith meets with his own annoyed look, though his best friend gives no pause to let him speak, grabbing at his bicep to keep him from going into his apartment and closing the door on him (which was what he was going to do, but he forgets how predictable he is to this man), “why can’t  _ you _ see that? You’re good. More than good, you’re great. Fantastic, even!” There’s pained exasperation there, and Keith feels icy guilt settle in the pit of his stomach. Shiro’s voice drops to a whisper, and he has to avert his eyes from that pleading look he’s on the receiving end of, “you’re wasting your talent, Keith. You’re not chasing your  _ dream _ .”

He jerks his head up, eyes wide in shock, and Shiro knows he’s stepped over the line, drawing his hand back like he’s been burned. Keith narrows his eyes at him and steps forward, into his space, even as the taller man takes a step back. He has to look up at him, but it doesn’t lessen the effect of the scathing glare he has fixed on the other man. “I tried, Shiro,  _ I tried _ . Sometimes you have to give up on dreams when they don’t work out, because  _ dreams don’t always pay the  _ **_fucking_ ** _ bills _ ,” he points angrily at the door of his apartment, a snarl on his lips, because  _ fuck _ he did try, he did, but it was fruitless. No one could hear his words beyond the chords he played. No one liked a guitarist with a pitchy voice, he couldn’t make it big with just Red and a voice that cracked when he sang too high, or lyrics that were bland and didn’t resonate with people. He  _ tried _ and he couldn’t make it, and he didn’t like being chastised like this for something he actually fucking  _ attempted  _ to do. He couldn’t be at fault for trying.

Shiro shrinks back a bit, his eyes cast to the side with guilt coloring his face. Keith could feel his stomach twist uncomfortably, knowing he shouldn’t lash out at his best friend like this, but the conversation had been had before. He hated rehashing the same explanation over and over again. His best friend’s shoulders fell as he nodded in understanding, like how every one of these exchanges ended. He could try to approach it any way he wanted to, but there was no way to truly convince Keith that the people he played for would like what he did, would like his pitchy voice, or could even hear beyond the chords he played. They both knew that, Shiro more than anyone else, yet they still had this argument from time to time. It’s been months since he’s last played for anyone other than Shiro, and he plans to keep it that way for a while.

“Right,” Shiro breaths out, defeated, “I know. I just… Wish--”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his best friend snapping his mouth shut with an audible ‘click’, “I’m content, Shiro. I have my own music, I know what I’m trying to say with Red, that’s enough. I’m okay.” Shiro looks like he doesn’t believe him, and he knows that the smile on his face is a little forced, knows deep down that he’s not as “okay” with it as he says he is. But what can you do? He’s not going to chase after a dream that he chased after once before, to end up homeless when his music didn’t bring in any money, or, even worse, dependant on someone like Shiro. He’d tried to pursue his trade once, had ran out of cash, and ended up living with Shiro while he found a job and got back on his feet. He didn’t want to put anyone in that situation again, to  _ be  _ in that situation again.

Shiro’s face falls a bit, but he schools the expression quickly. Keith knows that he’s disappointed (god, Shiro is like his  _ dad _ sometimes), but he refuses to chase something that is well out of his reach. His best friend extends his arm out to gently punch Keith’s shoulder, speaking once more, his voice strained but joking, “I feel bad for all of the ladies that were going to swoon over your guitar playing, Keith.” He’s still on the subject, but he’s just kidding now, since he  _ knows _ of Keith’s sexual preference.

“That’s fine, I’ve never been much into ladies,” Keith teases back, a grin pulling at his lips, “now, lads on the other hand…” Keith presses the back of one hand to his forehead and fists the fabric of his shirt over his chest with the other, pretending to swoon with exaggeration that has Shiro barking out a laugh, “my poor gay heart weeps for all the boys who won’t be serenaded by my music!” He can’t fight the wide smile he gets when Shiro laughs even harder, peeking over at him with one eye to find the man is holding his stomach and rumbling with giggles.  _ Tension gone, crisis averted. _

Shiro pretends to wipe a tear from his eye, reaching out to shove at Keith’s shoulder with a genuine smile on his face. “It will? I thought your poor gay heart weeps for Quintessence’s frontman.” His eyes have shifted from mirthful to teasing, and Keith feels his cheeks heat up almost immediately, his mouth falling open as he stutters on an excuse. Shiro starts to crack up again before Keith can even get a single coherent word out, and the blush on his face starts to sink lower, coloring his neck and the top of his chest with a hue of red so bright that it almost rivaled his jacket. He presses his hands, which are remarkably cool in contrast, to his face, shaking his head violently while his best friend doubles over with raucous laughter.

“Y-You look like a t-t-t-tomato,” Shiro gasps out between laughs, tears of mirth pricking at the corners of his eyes. Keith burns a bit brighter at the comment, a squawk of indignation leaving his lips. He did  _ not _ !

“Fuck you, Shiro,” Keith grumbles, covering his face with both hands to hide his expression while he spins an excuse, “I do not like their frontman. I just really appreciate his music. He has a unique voice and a great tone. It’s nothing… like that.” He hazards a peek through his fingers at Shiro, who has schooled his expression and is staring at Keith with an unreadable look in his eyes. He pulls his hands down and stares right back at him, brows furrowed in question. Shiro shakes his head at the shorter man, crossing his arms across his broad chest, and makes a “tch” sound in the back of his throat.

“Keith. That is the biggest bullshit that has ever come out of your mouth.” Shiro says with his trademark ‘disappointed dad’ voice, before he dissolves into laughter once more, as Keith splutters on his words once more. He’s about to shout obscenities at his best friend (the best he can do right now, embarrassed as he was), when there’s a deafening bang on the door from across the hall, accompanied by the loud curses of someone who was obviously trying to sleep. They both immediately shut up and quiet down, the voice dying down until they couldn’t hear it anymore. Shiro glances over at him with a barely restrained smile, mouthing the words, “I should go,” to which Keith replies with a nod, unable to hide the small smile on his own face.

“Thanks for taking me, Shiro,” he whispers back. Shiro grins and gives him a thumbs up. Keith rolls his eyes, though the motion is halted when a yawn bubbles up from his throat. Shiro nods sagely in agreement with the action and, with a wave and a quick side hug, he heads over to the stairwell and disappears while descending the flights. Keith watches him until the door to the stairwell closes before finally, finally, making his way over to his apartment and slipping inside.

He shuts the squeaky door behind him and locks it, like every day, and pulls off his shoes to leave in the entryway. Padding across the plush carpet and stifling a yawn behind his hand, he tosses his key into the dingy bowl by the doorway, shrugs off his jacket and throws it at the couch, and starts in the direction of the curtains that separate his “bedroom” from the rest of the studio apartment, feeling the magnetic pull of his bed. Keith hazards a glance at Red, taking in the spotless shine of her body and the black pickguard, the carved Korean letters that spell out his name along the lower part of her body near the input jack, and feels a bit of guilt in his stomach at his words from earlier. He knows she probably wants to sing for all sorts of people. He feels like he’s betrayed her a bit by refusing to play her for anyone but Shiro, though he knows that she knows why. Red’s always been there for him, she can wait while he goes through his… issues.

Keith wrenches his eyes away from her, shaking his head in exasperation. He needed more friends if he honestly thought that Red had feelings and understood why he didn’t take her out of the house anymore. Either that or he was a lot more tired than he thought he was. Speaking of tired… That bed was still calling his name.

Once he’s behind the black curtain, he throws off his socks and pants, ignoring how the chill starts to bite at his exposed skin, and climbs into bed, hauling the plush grey comforter over his body in an attempt to warm up. He stares at the curtains thoughtfully, thanking whatever being that made blackout curtains a thing, as the fabric doesn’t let in the early dawn light at all. His mind skips over the conversation he’d had with Shiro (it’d happened so many times before, he felt no need to dwell on it) and straight to the concert that Quintessence had put on. He feels his heart leap into his throat as he closes his eyes and relives every moment of the night, from the first note that their frontman had sang to the very last beat the drummer knocked out, from every chord that the bassist and guitarist played to the piano accompaniment that played off the rest of the song. He can’t help the happy sigh that escapes him at the memories.

Quintessence was amazing, everyone in that band. They’d been disjointed at first, being able to play well off of each other but lacking the emotional backing to truly speak to the audience, though their frontman was able to bring everyone together. It was like he was the glue that held their sound together, taking all of those mixed words and using himself as a soundpiece to translate them all into one clear, sound, and impressive dialect. Keith tries to think more about the rest of the band, but he can’t stop himself from centering on their frontman, and finally stops fighting it so he can linger on thoughts of that pretty voice and even more gorgeous man.

Even from where he was in the pit, he could tell that Quintessence’s frontman was absolutely breathtaking. Especially in his element as he was, that man with the caramel-colored skin had succeeded in completely taking Keith’s breath away with every word that spilled from his lips, colored in colors that Keith could only guess at. His excitement, his smile, his attitude on stage; all were infectious and Keith had caught the bug. Every fiber of his being wanted to see them perform again, to bask in the glow of the frontman, to listen to their music.

He holds those thoughts close as he slips into a slumber filled with dreams of hot stage lights, blinding smiles set in fields of tawny skin, and a boisterous croon echoing in his eardrums.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The apartment is dark when Keith finally drags himself out of his dreams.

He takes his time waking up, lethargically rolling out of bed after laying in the dim for about fifteen minutes. His blankets end up coming with him, acting as a cocoon for him as he shuffles from his bed over towards the bathroom. He’d gone to bed when dawn was breaking, but now the sky boasted a gradient of orange to pink to purple as the sun began to melt below the horizon line, dusk fast approaching. Sleep must’ve held him captive for a little less than half a day, though he assumed he needed it, especially after the all-nighter he pulled. Even after sleeping for so long, Keith couldn’t help the yawn that broke free from his lips while he admires the sky through the dingy window of his apartment. He idly thinks that he should clean that soon, as well as the rest of his small apartment, seeing as there’s clothes strewn here and there, and there are dirty dishes sitting on his coffee table, near his sink, and on the dining room table. Keith scowls, thinking of how he really needs to get it together.

As if on cue, his stomach growls angrily at him, evidence of his neglect to basic self-care. He turns his glower towards his own body, and, to chastise him, his stomach gives him another animalistic noise of hunger. Keith sighs, padding across the carpet over to the tiled kitchen area of his apartment, and yanks open the refrigerator door only to be greeted with the pathetic sight of a handful of beers and hard lemonade, a half-gallon of milk that may or may not be bad, a couple of water bottles, and a stick of butter. Certainly not anything he could eat.

Keith groans up to the popcorn ceiling, lamenting over his inability to function like an actual adult and not like a teenager who was left at home while his parents went on vacation. His blanket-cocooned body shuffles over to his laptop, which he grabs at with one hand, unwilling to let his warm prison fall and expose him to the chilly air of the apartment. With laptop in hand, he shuffles back over to his bed, parts the curtains, and climbs into bed to set up the device.

He keeps the blankets over his shoulders while waiting for his old monster of a computer to boot up, idly scrolling through his phone for signs of any life that wanted to interact with him. Save for a text from Shiro with the schedule for next week (they work together, Shiro being the manager and Keith the assistant manager of a popular store that boasted band merch and pop culture items:  _ Hot Topic _ ), there were no other notifications, which Keith tried not to let himself think about. It’s not like he has a very big friend group, Shiro and Allura being the only two individuals that he could name off the top of his head that would be willing to spend time with him. It’s not all bad, though! Better to have close friends than a bunch of acquaintances, and he had some close friends! One close friend. Really, just one friend, and, even now, that friend was finding solace in someone else. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spent time together where he didn’t feel like at third-wheel, just a backseat to Allura. He was happy for Shiro, of course, he just couldn’t help feeling a little jealous and, fuck, that’s probably why his best friend was pulling away, god, he was such a--

The ding from his computer as it finished booting up resulted in Keith physically jerking backwards, yanked from his headspace forcefully. He blinks at the brightness of the computer screen in the dark room, his background boasting a close up of the neck of a guitar, the strings in high definition in contrast to the fretboard. Right. He had to order food. Keith forcibly shoves thoughts of Shiro and Allura away, locking those away to deal with another day, and hauls his whirring laptop over to tap in his password (“Cr1msonGu1tar1st”, he cringes at it while pressing enter). The thing makes a noise of assent and fades to black before coming back with the same wallpaper, only this time there are desktop icons along the side and a toolbar at the bottom of the screen. Spotify automatically starts up, as per usual, though he ignores it in favor of more pressing matters, seeing as his stomach might actually start digesting his insides in a moment.

He immediately opens up his browser, avoiding his social media sites in lieu of opening a page he’s been to far too often in the past couple of months. It takes a minute to load, but then the Pizza Hut homepage is cycling through their weekly deals and showing off mouthwatering food. Keith logs in to his account and clicks his saved order, a large meat lover’s pizza, to add it to the cart, having ordered from them an  _ embarrassing _ amount of times recently. (Hasn’t been bothered to cook. Or clean. Or do much of anything, save for listen to music and play Red.) He taps in his card number from memory, clicks on the delivery option, and sends his order on through. Despite the thirty minute wait, his stomach rumbles appreciatively at the prospect of a hot meal.

In the meantime, Keith starts to dick around on the internet, browsing through Twitter and checking up on his favorite bands. Spotify serves as his background music, though it’s not playing anything wholly interesting. Nothing that’ll set his bones aflame, or that will fill his core with heat. Not like yesterday, where he’d burned and  _ burned _ until there was nothing left, at the mercy of the bass line, of the snares, the guitar chords, the piano keys, and that voice,  _ gods above and below _ , that  _ voice _ . He needs to hear it again. The search bar taunts him with promises of such things. Keith hesitates for a moment, debating with himself on how fanboy-ish he wants to be, but, with memories of Quintessence’s music in his eardrums, he realizes he doesn’t care, and is quickly tapping their name into Google.

At first, all he gets is the definition of the word (apparently it means “the aspect of something regarded as the intrinsic and central constituent of its character”, which makes sense, if he thinks about the frontman) but, by simply adding the word “band” to the search bar, he pulls up their Wikipedia page, their Twitter, Facebook page, Bandcamp, and even their Tumblr. Keith fights the excited jump in the pit of his stomach as he clicks on their Wiki page first. The screen fills with text, their logo off to the side, with a list of the band members beneath that, and a table of contents on the other side of the page. There’s a list of their songs, a couple of tidbits of information, but not much else. It seems they just formed earlier this year, and started with a few cover songs, before releasing some of their own music. There’s not even an actual discography for them yet, only a handful of songs displayed on their Wikipedia page. More importantly, there’s the first and last names of every member, and he can’t stop himself from reading them all.

Keith finds himself glancing through the list of the band members, barely suppressing a wide smile as he commits their names to memory.

_ Hunk Garrett _ , drummer.

_ Shay Balmera _ , bassist.

_ Katie “Pidge” Gunderson _ , pianist.

_ Nyma Rebela _ , guitarist.

_ Rolo Galran _ , tech.

The grin that he’d been holding back bursts forth as he reads the final name.

_ Lance McClain _ , frontman.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The name  _ Lance _ becomes a constant presence in his mind, invading his thought processes at every possible moment; in the shower, while he’s singing softly to the tile while lathering up his hair, while he’s walking to work, busying himself with his with his phone by checking Quintessence’s Twitter for their next concert (he’s gone to two already this week, both at Juniberries. They’re as electrifying as the first time. He swears that Lance looks for him in the crowd now, though that might be wishful thinking), while he’s making dinner or playing Red or doing anything, really. He’s obsessed; not just with Quintessence, but with  _ Lance McClain _ , the frontman that he admires more than anyone he’s ever looked up to before. Except Shiro, of course, but no one could ever reach the tier that he was on in Keith’s book.

He’d made it so that his phone would notify him when there was a new tweet from either Lance’s personal Twitter or Quintessence’s Twitter page, and he was almost always the first one to like or retweet any of Lance’s selfies (he was even better looking up close. Keith feared for his heart if they were ever face-to-face in person), or to give the same treatment to Quintessence’s official Twitter. Keith followed everyone in the band on their social media, but Lance was the only individual member on his notification list. He just, y’know, admired him. A lot. For his voice. And his music. Not for any other ulterior motive.

He didn’t believe  _ himself _ , hell, the stupidest person on  _ Earth _ wouldn’t believe him. But he was scared to admit to his attraction, although it was blatantly obvious to anyone that got him to talk about the frontman.

And,  _ oh _ , did he  _ talk _ about him.

Shiro had been the first one to be on the receiving end of Keith’s incessant gushing over Quintessence and, more specifically, Lance. They’d met up for coffee the night after the fourth show that Keith had gone to, the electricity of that music still surging in his body from head to toe, buzzing through his bloodstream. The thump of the bass drum echoed in his heartbeat, ricocheting off the inside of his ribcage. He was jittery, gooseflesh raised on his pale skin, the bags under his eyes designer, though they were shining brilliantly despite obvious lack of sleep, and Shiro had noticed immediately.

“How was Quintessence last night?” Shiro had asked casually, sipping at his hot vanilla coffee with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Keith perked up with a grin like a child in a candy shop, wide and wholesome on his face, and immediately launched into a giddy, detailed story of the band’s recent performance, which was at an actual venue and not a club this time, where he’d listened to everything from their dance songs (they played  _ Rock Your Body _ again and Keith felt his soul leave his body when Lance threw his jacket off to the side, exposing toned biceps and forearms that glistened under the stage lights) to a sweet duet between the bassist and the drummer (Hunk had a voice deeper than the mantle of the Earth, and just as rich, and Shay sang with a beautiful alto voice that was underlaid with husky tones, fitting voices for ones that fit so well together). He’d even had the privilege of listening to Lance singing with a normal voice (he pitched his up for some songs, a falsetto that Keith adored, though he loved his regular pitch more) in a different language as Pidge accompanied him on her keyboard.

“--and he speaks  _ Spanish _ , Shiro, Lance McClain is going to be--” Keith suddenly cut himself off, his cheeks starting to burn with heat as he realized what he was doing. The shit-eating grin on his best friend’s face was just begging to be punched off. He scowled, narrowed his eyes, tried to quiet the tremors that wracked his body when he thought about last night’s concert (they were completely involuntary; he was  _ literally  _ buzzing from the adrenaline keeping him awake right now), and cast his eyes to the side, grip tightening around the cup warmed by the hot green tea with honey it held.

“I mean. How did you know I went to see Quintessence last night? I just stayed home.” Keith muttered, bringing the warm porcelain to his lips so he could take a sip of the life-giving liquid that warmed his throat and stomach on its way down. The cold December air wriggled under his skin and settled in his marrow, and this tea was combatting the chill with every gulp. He could feel his muscles liquify at the delightful heat that spread through his body.  _ Perfection _ .

Shiro rolled his eyes, bringing the coffee cup to his lips to hide his smile behind, not that it did the job very well. “You literally just gave me a play-by-play so in detail that would rival a court stenographer’s report, Keith, and you’re going to try and claim that you stayed home last night?” Keith glowered at him from over the rim of his own cup, even as his best friend nudged his calf with one boot-covered foot, that handsome face grinning at him without restraint. “You can admit that you like them, y’know, that you like  _ Lance _ . Nothing to be ashamed of.”

He’s glad the steam and the chill outside had already brightened his cheeks, so that way he can use them as an excuse if anyone questions him on it. Keith took a drink of his tea to avoid having to respond to him, to which Shiro sighed, although he did drop the subject, at least, for the time being. He was grateful for it; he wasn’t going to admit that he knows what this is, this obsessive attraction, not out loud and  _ especially _ not to Shiro. Said man took pity on his poor heart and skipped over the subject of Lance, instead asking him to tell him more about the concert. Keith sat up immediately, eyes wide and shining as he launched back into his story, though he glossed over the details of Lance for the rest of his retelling. Shiro’s smile was that of a parent listening to their child exuberantly talk about something dear to them.

Allura had even been subjected to Keith’s gushing, after she’d seen him sneaking into Juniberries to watch another Quintessence show, and pulled him aside to check up with him and ask him why he was there. He couldn’t stop himself when she mentioned that Quintessence was playing tonight, though he missed the knowing glint in her eye (Shiro did the same thing) because of the dim lights in the club. She’d patiently listened as Keith raved about the band, praising every band member, but practically  _ worshipping _ Lance in his description of the frontman.

“--honestly, his voice is phenomenal, in every way, and he can move too, Lance is something else on that stage, he’s practically  _ perfect _ ,” Keith pressed his hands to his cheeks, feeling them warm under his palms, as Allura giggled softly at his reaction. It sounded like bells on the wind, and it caused the dark-haired man to burrow further into his hands, avoiding eye contact with Allura. It only brought another laugh from his best friend’s girlfriend.  _ He’d done it again _ .

“You know, Keith, I can introduce you to the band. They are my friends,” Allura teased gently, her voice suddenly a lot closer, and Keith peeked through his fingers to see the beautiful woman directly in front of his face, close enough that he could see the flecks of white in her star-studded eyes, and make out the bright fuschia pigment on her eyelids, even with the low-lighting of the club. He physically jerked backwards, shaking his head vehemently at the suggestion. He could not, absolutely  _ would not _ meet them in person. He wasn’t sure he could handle it. The pout he got in return looked out of place on that regal face.

She put her manicured hands on her hips (the opalescent fingernails are a nice touch to her outfit today, and the little gemstones decorating her nail beds glitter slightly in the dim), lips pursed slightly with one sculpted eyebrow raised in question. “And why not?” She sounded indignant at his response, like she’d been expecting him to agree wholeheartedly. Keith scowled behind his fingers. He didn’t want to act like a blushing schoolboy in front of them and, with his obsessive attraction towards Lance, he knew exactly what he’d end up doing. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“No, I don’t want to. I’d rather admire from afar, ‘sides, it’d be awkward,” he grumbled back, Allura rolling her eyes at his denial with that pout firmly stuck on her lips. Keith didn’t give, not even when she clasped her hands together and began to give him puppy dog eyes. He shook his head again, going back and forth with her for a good ten minutes before she threw her hands up and stomped away from him, the clack of her lavender heels could be heard even over the sound of the club music and the people. Keith felt triumphant for a moment before dread settled in his veins as he realized he’d just turned down the one person who could  _ actually _ get him a private meeting with Quintessence. Groaning at his stupidity, he pressed his hands to his eyelids and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes, refusing to get sleepy when he had a concert to look forward to in a little under an hour. This was his sixth time seeing them in the past three weeks, and every show had been just as energizing and amazing.

Tonight’s was no different, as Keith was swept up in the notes, blown away by the bassline, hit with the drums, strung up by the guitar strings, smacked around with the piano keys, rocked to the very  _ core  _ by their songs once more. His fingertips tingled with energy as he tweeted a compliment at the band’s official Twitter after the show, too excited to go to sleep, although he was curled up under the covers on his bed.

**Keithtessence (@crimsonguitarist)** : @quintessence the show was amazing, u guys are my favorite band, can’t wait for the next show! <3

Keith sent off the tweet with anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach as he wondered how they would react. The regret that he started to feel was quashed almost as soon as it started. He got an instantaneous response, which he immediately screenshotted to commemorate the event, as that anxious feeling bled away into warmth.

**Quintessence Official (@quintessence)** : @crimsonguitarist thanks for coming!! We’ll see you at our Christmas show; check your DMs!

He’d never opened his direct messages that fast before, and the sight of what was in them made him throw his phone in a random direction (he heard the soft sound it made when it hit the curtains around his bed, and the subsequent “thump” of it hitting the floor, but couldn’t find it in himself to care), feeling his face, neck, and likely the top of his chest all burn a vibrant red. Keith pressed his hands over his face to muffle the scream that was bubbling up in the back of his throat, which erupted loudly from him while he rolled around on the bed, mussing the covers and kicking his feet the whole time. When he finally stopped losing his  _ mind _ , he rolled over and scooped the phone up off the floor, staring at the message with wide eyes, and he couldn’t stop the squeal that he made at the sight.  

**Quintessence Official (@quintessence):** Exclusive tickets for you @crimsonguitarist here: [link]. We’ll see you there!!

He’s glad he lives alone, because the screaming, jumping, and freaking out lasted well into the night, before he finally collapsed in an exhausted heap on his bed, a permanent grin stuck on his face. Not for the first time, Keith was aflame with his love for music, for this band. He’d grown to  _ love _ so much in barely a month. It seemed like all he could think about nowadays was Quintessence, like all he listened to was their music, hell, they were his alarm tone, ringtone,  _ and _ text tone. He listened to them on the shitty speaker of his laptop while showering, singing along to them as best as he could (he had tried to imagine doing a duet with Lance and the resulting flush hadn’t just been from the near-boiling heat of the water he was washing with). Even his social media reflected his obsession with them, from tweets to his cover photo on Facebook, to the pictures he reblogged of Lance on Tumblr. Keith was wholly and royally screwed, so far down the rabbit hole as he was. Sleep pulled him under into dreams of Quintessence, of Lance, of music that spoke to his core with every measure, all dipped in molten gold, shining so brilliantly that Keith was sure he was in the presence of  _ actual stars _ .

_ Lance _ has become a constant presence in his mind, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it in the slightest.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The days that lead up to the Christmas concert are grueling to trudge through. The store is absolutely crazy, Shiro and him end up working for thirteen days straight. Christmas Eve ends up being armageddon, as Keith almost has to literally fight some customers on the price of certain items. Sure, his paycheck would look pretty, but at what cost? He was worn down, haggard, completely exhausted. The holiday season always took such a huge toll on him. Luckily, after much wheedling, he’d gotten Shiro to give him Christmas Day off so he could go to Quintessence’s concert, which wasn’t at Juniberries, but a different venue (standing room only; although, he never noticed he’d been standing for hours until the following morning, when the adrenaline wore off and the ache settled into his bones).

Allura closed Juniberries on Christmas Eve and Day, and he knew that she and Shiro would be spending the days together, seeing as he’d been invited to join them. Rather than subject himself to being the third wheel, he’d politely declined and said he had something else planned.

“Going to see Quintessence’s Christmas show?” Shiro had asked casually, not looking up from his phone when Keith had declined his offer. He  _ almost _ affirmed it, the word “yes” at the tip of his tongue, but he’d managed to bite it back at the last second. He closed his mouth around the word with an audible ‘click’, swallowing the syllables down, before crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head.  _ Not today, he was not going to gush about Quintessence and Lance today _ . When he realized that Shiro wasn’t even looking at him, he spoke his dissent instead.

“No, I am not. I have other plans,” Keith replied with a huff. Shiro gave him a look of disbelief over his phone, one brow cocked in a ‘don’t bullshit me, I’ve known you for over a decade’ way. He knew he was completely translucent, but he refused to fall back into the routine of talking animatedly about his favorite band and then getting embarrassed when he realized what he had been doing. Not that his friends didn’t encourage him to talk about them, he just didn’t enjoy exposing his feelings like that. He’d much rather act indifferent towards them, although he was extremely obsessed with their music and their frontman. Shiro just shrugged one shoulder, used to his antics by now, and went back to scrolling through his phone. Keith couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed at the lack of fight but, after three weeks of back and forth between constant rambling over Quintessence (and Lance) and vehemently denying that he enjoyed them, he understood why Shiro was getting a little sick of it. Hell, he’d be sick of it too, so he doesn’t blame Shiro.

He doesn’t press him about it again, although he tells him to enjoy the show when they close shop on Christmas Eve, well after when they were supposed to close. Keith gives Shiro a nod and tells him to have a good evening after a quick parting hug, before pulling his gloves on and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. He bundles himself up in a thick black peacoat and a bright red scarf looped around his neck to combat the cold that nipped at his extremities as he puttered home on his cherry-red moped through the quiet streets of the town, away from the concrete jungle and into the brick-and-mortar of the edges of the inner city. It’s not a great neighborhood, but the rent is cheap and it’s more central than the ‘burbs.

Keith parks his moped outside, kicking the stand up and taking the keys with him as he heads inside the, thankfully, heated lobby, and then over to the stairwell. The steps that lead up to his apartment seem endless, but the tiredness he’d felt from today and the days prior bleed out of him as he realizes what was happening the following day. Not even the welcome embrace of his bed could lull him into dreamland. Sleep came to him in sparse moments that night, excitement frying his nerves and keeping him up until the wee hours of the morning, when he finally settled down to catch the last dregs of sleep in the few moments he had left of strictly moonlight.

When he finally awoke, feeling much more rested, and parted the curtains, the window showed him the lazy winter sun had ascended to hang high above a canopy of grey clouds, fat with rain that threatened to fall on the town at any moment. Perfect weather for sitting inside all day, curled up underneath his fleece comforter with a cup of tea and his laptop. However, Keith was on a mission that day, and it involved leaving his heated abode to brave the cold winter air and (possible) rain. The thought already sent a shiver up Keith’s spine. The cold was not his favorite thing. He much preferred spring or early autumn, when the sun wasn’t too harsh (he wore an absurd amount of dark colors, okay, he soaked up heat like a sponge), where he could walk around without feeling as though his entire body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat or that his extremities could be bitten off by the cold. Perfect mid-70s, where it was cool in the shade and pleasantly warm in the sun. The knowledge that he would have to brave the below 30s temperature outside was already making him grumpy.

Not that he could be grumpy for long, as the printed out ticket that he’d stuck on his fridge with a guitar shaped magnet stared at him. Keith could  _ vibrate _ with excitement at this point. Only a few hours and about ten miles stood between him and the Quintessence Christmas show. He practically bounced over to the bathroom, eager to soak under the hot spray and relax before he had to venture out to the venue. Keith took his time in the shower, shampooing and conditioning his hair while he hummed nonsense under his breath. He lathered himself up with a strong smelling body wash, eager to carry a pleasant scent with him throughout the whole day. Once the tips of his fingers started to wrinkle, he shut off the near-boiling water and grabbed a big, fluffy towel to wrap himself in.

The rest of his routine was pretty standard. Get dressed (he grabbed a fitted pair of black jeans, a thin burgundy hoodie, and a leather jacket. He wants to look his very best.), brush teeth, do hair, pull on a pair of Doc Martens the same color as his hoodie, and pull on his gloves. Keith snatches up his phone, wallet, keys, and gloves, eager to get a move on. He’s halfway down the stairs when he realizes he forgot his ticket in his excitement. Keith bolts back up the stairs, grabbing his ticket and spraying himself with a generous amount of body spray. Stomach twisted into a pretzel, he makes his way back down the stairs, helmet held under his arm.

The air outside assaults him as he walks through the door of his apartment complex, angrily biting at his nose and cheeks. With a hiss, he pulls his helmet on, damning the seasons and the weather all the while. He straddles the cold nude leather of his moped seat, fishing his keys out of his pocket so he can shove them into the ignition. The well-taken care of vehicle purrs as he turns the key, rumbling nicely between his legs. Keith pats her red panel cover and nods, a smile on his face. He settles his hands over the handles, revving her engine once, twice, three times, before he kicks the kickstand back and settles his feet on the bike while he putters away from his apartment.

Keith doesn’t think of much other than Quintessence during the entire drive, as he weaves in and out of traffic. The show doesn’t start for another two hours, but he’s nothing if not more than punctual for something like this. His earbuds, which he should not be wearing while driving, blast one of their singles in his ears. The drive is relaxing, although his stomach twists into knots with every passing mile. The streets are quiet, void of most people, others locked away from the weather or spending time with their families, exchanging gifts. Nothing he’d bother with. Holidays aren’t exactly his favorite time of year. Keith twists the handle a bit more to speed up, losing himself to the vibration of his vehicle and the beats in his ears. No reason to think about things that don’t matter.

The concrete jungle welcomes him with open arms. Quintessence’s venue isn’t too far into the inner city, but it’s still a drive. His moped can only go so fast. When he gets there, and finds a parking spot, it’s only an hour until the show starts. Keith is buzzing with excitement as he practically skips over to the entrance. The person at the front asks for his ticket, which he hands over with ease, a smile on his lips that he cannot hold back. They stamp the paper and hand it back to him, which he quickly folds up and puts into his pocket (that’s going right on his wall, honestly). The woman opens the door for him, revealing a venue that’s surprisingly full, despite the holiday.

He thanks the bouncer and enters the building, marveling at the large crowd all in front of the stage already. The tech is out testing and setting up the equipment, paying the people no mind. There’s a bar set at the back of the building that’s already packed with people looking for a little liquor. Keith avoids the area; he’s not a huge drinker. He prefers to do it in the company of friends; losing inhibitions isn’t on his list of things to do today. What is on his list is getting to the front of the crowd, which he manages by ducking and weaving through the mass of people so he can get as close as possible, a grin plastered on his face the entire time.

The throng of people pay a single person like him no mind, which he’s grateful for. He’d rather not be accosted, and it makes it easier to submerge himself in the music. The concert won’t start for another hour, which ticks by slowly, as Keith stalks the Quintessence Twitter for updates on what was going on. Lance posts selfies from backstage, which he retweets immediately. He’s so excited, he feels like his every appendage is vibrating. Twenty minutes.

At ten minutes prior to when the show starts, the band members start to filter out from backstage. First, it’s Pidge, who sets up at her keyboard. She immediately starts to mess with the settings on it, white-gloved fingers tapping at the buttons and keys simultaneously. She’s dressed in a green dress with sequins, a white fur bolero around her shoulders, and red sneakers on her feet. She doesn’t look all too comfortable with the getup, as he’s scratching at her neck and adjusting the dress with a scowl. It’s probably something that Lance came up with. Christmas outfits for a Christmas show.

Hunk and Shay walk out next, their hands linked together. She looks much more comfortable in her own emerald green gown, which stretches all the way down to the floor. It shimmers with every step of her long, powerful legs, which can be seen in a slit on the side of the skirt. The dress has a low back and a slouched front, accentuating her ample bust. She also has on white gloves and red shoes, though hers are flats rather than sneakers. Shay looks absolutely ethereal, and Keith can’t help but admire her. Which Hunk is definitely doing, if that lovesick look in his eyes is any indication.

He’s dressed in a white button down and a red waistcoat, plus black slacks and a green bowtie. Hunk’s hair is slicked back, the headband not present for this particular performance. He stopped to steal a kiss from Shay’s red-painted lips before they parted, her to her bass and him to his drums. His eyes don’t leave her though, as he sits down on the stool behind his drums. Keith can see the love-struck sigh that rocks his body from here, and he can’t help but think about how cute they are.

Nyma stalks out next, looking almost regal. Her dreads are piled up into a ponytail on her head, tied up with a thick gold ribbon. She’s dressed in a red cropped top and a high-waisted skirt, which is longer in the back than it is in the front. Her legs are swathed in white tights, which end in emerald green heels. There’s a smile on his face that Keith doesn’t quite like, especially when she winks at their tech- Rolo, was it? Nyma blows a kiss his way, with her lips swathed in forest green.

Lance is the last to come out, as always. He’s wearing an outfit similar to Hunk’s, though the waistcoat is gold and his bowtie is green. Like usual, his presence on the stage is a commandment that Keith follows with reverence. This close, he can see the excitement that has colored his favorite frontman’s cheeks a darker shade than the rest of his skin. Lance waves at everyone, that smile blinding, and Keith melts a bit from its radiance. He watches as the frontman moves to stand in front of the mic, grabbing it with both hands as the stage lights flicker on. The crowd all yell their assent, Keith included, and Lance’s smile widens impossibly.

The drum sticks click. The bassline starts. Lance takes a deep breath. The show begins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOT!! You made it to the end!!!! 
> 
> Thank you bunches for reading!! I hope that you guys liked this chapter!! Please let me know if you liked it!! 
> 
> As always, dedicated to Evan. The light of my life. My Jupiter!


	3. If I Loved You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Quintessence Christmas show is a veritable rollercoaster of emotion that Keith did not want to ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY I'M SORRY FOR THE HUGE PAUSE BETWEEN UPDATES. 
> 
> anyways, enjoy the Christmas show!! 
> 
> Here is a playlist for the first four songs: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/cawaiiey/playlist/6YkX3Hrnuz9DJAvw1KquSN
> 
> aaaand here is the link for the last song used:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9df7mHBjOYM

It starts with the group clapping rhythmically, in one, two, three, four, then five in quick succession, setting up the count that Pidge supports by pressing the keys to tap out a happy melody. Once the piano starts, everyone on stage begins to whistle, following the ups and downs of the tune that Pidge is playing. Keith’s grin lights up his face as he realizes that he hasn’t heard this song before, his heart thudding against his ribcage with every clap. After two measures, Shay comes in on the bass, leaving three people clapping, and the third measure ends, with Hunk following, his stick hitting a cymbal with a crash that beats at Keith’s eardrums. The fourth measure leads into the fifth, with Nyma and Lance ceasing their clapping (the crowd still claps the melody, and Keith wars with himself on whether he wants to join them or not), as the guitarist slides in on a single note and Lance croons into the microphone.

“ _ If you love somebody, better tell them while you’re here ‘cause, they just may run away from you _ ,” he drags out the last word, one hand over his heart and the other gripping the microphone where it sits on the stand. Keith stares in awe, enraptured in the way he sings, though a lack of movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns his head to see Nyma, looking bored as she plucks at her guitar strings, still whistling along to the beat. She’s playing without any emotion coloring her performance that seems out of place, different from their usual shows. Keith’s brows furrow, slipping out of the familiarity, as he stares at her. She continues to blankly play chords, making music but not really feeling it. He can sense it in the harmony of the music, she’s speaking without a clear dialect.

Lance doesn’t seem to notice as he sings through the first verse and slips into the bridge, the instruments, save for Pidge’s piano, falling silent, “ _ I take it in but don’t look down _ ,” his eyes light up, and Keith snaps his head back to catch the way he jumps in the air, seemingly hovering for a moment, as the instruments all start up again. Hunk, Lance, and Shay all sing the chorus, harmonizing beautifully, “ _ ‘cause I’m on top of the world, hey! I’m on top of the world, hey! Waiting on this for a while know, paying my dues to the dirt,”  _ Keith forgets his worries over Nyma for a moment as he loses himself to the rest of the song.

Mesmerizing. That’s all he can think about Quintessence, even with the spot of disharmony that is messing with the rest of their sound. He can’t help but grin through the entire song. He swears he catches Lance flicking his eyes down to him a few times, but he won’t let himself entertain the thought for long. They couldn’t possibly know who he is,  _ he _ couldn’t possibly know; he was just a fanboy, loathe as he was to admit to fitting that moniker. It was  _ true _ , though. He was a fanboy, and nothing he ever did would catch Lance’s eye. He’d already come to terms with that. Besides, there was also the whole Nyma thing, i.e., they were dating. Not that he was expecting Lance to take an interest in him like that, that would be presumptuous and stupid, and, besides, he’d have to get to know Lance first, but Lance wouldn’t want to be friends with  _ him _ , he’s an assistant manager for a Hot Topic, for Christ’s sake, he’s nothing out of the ordinary or exciting o-

Keith doesn’t have another moment to walk down that road (he knows where it’ll lead; unnecessary jealousy and an increased sense of self-loathing), as the song finishes up and the crowd erupts into applause. Despite himself, Keith finds himself hollering and cheering, gaze locked onto his favorite frontman, who was scooping up a water bottle, breathing labored. He tilts his head up to swallow down gulps of the life-giving liquid, and Keith gapes at his Adam’s apple, where it bobs along the pristine, caramel-colored length of his neck. He covers his face with his hands for a moment, suddenly desperately needing a drink of water.

He’s wrenched from his embarrassed state when Lance hollers into the microphone to hype up the crowd. Keith whips his head up, staring with reverence as Lance introduces themselves. He has such a  _ presence _ , Keith was so enamored, it was honestly embarrassing, to himself and to everyone around him. No wonder Shiro was sick of his gushing.

“Hey everyone, welcome to the Quintessence Christmas show!” Lance hollers, and the crowd screams their assent back. Hunk rolls his eyes from where he’s sat behind the drum kit, as Lance grins and sweeps his arms out, soaking in the attention like a flower towards the sun. And, god, he was  _ blooming _ . Keith honestly thinks he’s found his favorite flower. The thought makes him almost physically recoil at how cheesy it is.

“We hope you’ve had a great Christmas day so far, and we’re eager to give you guys our presence as a present,” Lance winks, barely stifling a bit of laughter as Hunk hits out a sting of ‘ba dum tiss’. Keith fakes a groan at the joke, though he’s smiling, much like Pidge and Shay are. He chances a glance at Nyma. She’s checking her nails, not paying a lick of attention to the frontman.  _ What is going on? _

“We’ve got a good show planned for you guys tonight, so shut your quiznaks and get ready to party,” the crowd all hoot and holler, Keith joining in on the shouts as well, just to watch the way Lance’s face brightens with every noise of assent. He gets close to the microphone, hooding his eyes and dropping his voice down low, lower than Keith is used to hearing it, and the timbre sends a shiver up his spine, “but first, why don’t we get a lil’ Christmas spirit in here. Just call me santa, baby.”

Keith’s head has never jerked so fast, the pet name, although not directed at him, fanning the flames in his stomach and heating his cheeks to a ruddy red. Lance’s self-satisfied smirk, although aimed at no one in particular, still succeeds in making Keith’s stomach into a contortionist. And if his insides were a circus, then surely Lance was the ringleader, because every word, every smile, every song served to have his stomach twisting and flipping like a gymnast, his heart would beat against his ribcage with all the force of a cannonball, all at Lance’s command. Keith squeezed his hands together, watching as Lance stepped back from the microphone and produced a tambourine from a corner of the stage, while Nyma took his place, her guitar still slung over her shoulder.  _ Nyma _ .

He watched her with narrowed eyes. Something didn’t feel right about the way she was acting so far, she was usually so exuberant and fun during the shows. And now, the casual saunter over to the microphone, the wicked smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes, and the lack of response to Lance’s wink all spelled trouble. Nyma took her place in front of the microphone stand while the frontman found his way over to the side of the stage, looking proud with the tambourine in hand. He didn’t notice the way Nyma was acting, apparently, or maybe he knew and he was just playing dumb. Either way, Nyma didn’t look at him as the band took up their instruments and Hunk clicked a few beats.

The entire band started at once, with the piano, the drums, the bass, the guitar, and even Lance’s little tambourine joining in at the same time. The chords had a plinky sound to it, in the way Pidge hit the same few keys on her keyboard, with Hunk following the same rhythm, and Lance hitting his tambourine on every four beats. Nyma sang muffled at first against the microphone, in “do’s”, four with each measure, until the third one began.

Her voice has always had a slight nasal pitch to it, though she seems to have upped the ante on it this time, as she drawls her lyrics into the mic, “ _ Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree _ ,” she lets her eyes slide off to the side, and Keith is close enough to see where she was looking, and it’s not at Lance. It’s at someone past him, behind the curtain.  _ But who? _ . Keith bites his lower lip, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach like an icy vice grip. Nothing feels right about this situation at all. He keeps his eyes on Nyma, watching her every move.

Her lips curl into a more mischievous, seductive smile, and this one reaches her eyes, though it’s not assuring as all, as her forest green lips curl around the lyrics, “ _ for me. Been an awful good girl _ .” She shimmies her hips and winds down low a bit, drawing wolf-whistles from the crowd. With a glance over at Lance, he finds the man enraptured in the movement of the guitarist’s hips, almost forgetting to tap his tambourine on every fourth beat. Completely oblivious to her change in demeanor. She keeps looking over, past the curtain, at someone back there, and Keith is wracking his brain trying to figure out who she could possibly be looking at.

“ _ Santa baby _ ,” she lilts, and winks, and winds her hips down, “ _ and hurry down the chimney tonight _ ,” and everything clicks in Keith’s head. The only person that could possibly be on stage with them, behind that curtain she was flirting at, was Rolo. Their guitar tech.

Keith’s stomach plummets to the ground, his eyes locked on Nyma and her performance, but he can’t breathe, can’t even think. He doesn’t absorb any of the music, he can’t. Something doesn’t feel right about this show; their dialect is off. It’s not put together at all. He chances a look at Lance, but even he doesn’t seem to notice what’s off about their show. The rest of the crowd doesn’t see it either, but Keith’s always been more observant. His throat tightens as he swallows down the desire to scream. He has a sickening feeling that this night is not going to end well, that something horrendous is going to happen.

The song ends, Nyma smiles, and the crowd roars with thunderous applause. Lance and Nyma trade places again, with Lance brushing their fingers together on the way back to the mic stand. Nyma doesn’t react, Keith notices, and his intestines decided to contort themselves into a pretzel shape.  _ How could he not see what was going on? _ Lance, blissfully unaware, takes his place at the microphone again, but he doesn’t try to hype up the crowd this time like an overeager Emcee. Instead, he only nods, grins that radiant smile, and holds his fingers up to count down the beats for the next song.

The next one is nice to listen to, if a bit monotone on Lance’s voice, but Keith can’t even truly appreciate it, not with the foreboding feeling hanging over his head. All he hears is Lance’s voice through a fog of worry, anxiety, as he sings, “ _ I’m gonna make it mine, gonna make it all mine _ ,” while the guitar draws out simple chords, and Pidge plays a melody on her piano. Hunk joins in at some point, harmonizing with Lance wonderfully, but, even then, Keith finds himself unable to submerge himself into the music, to lose himself to the bassline or the lilting croon of Lance’s tenor timbre, to the crash of the drums or Pidge’s piano chords, and especially not to the normally soothing guitar strings.

“ _ I’m will make it all mine _ ,” Lance sings as he finishes the song, to a chorus of applause once more. Keith feels a little bad for not being able to enjoy the music, especially since he had been looking forward to the show all month. He flicks his eyes over to Nyma, who had her head tilted and was smirking toward the curtain again. Worry creased the skin between his eyebrows, overwhelmed as he was by the situation. She turned her head suddenly, and Keith couldn’t help but jump at the movement, his gaze shifting back to Lance, who was staring right at Nyma. Smiling. He blew a kiss at her, Keith fought down the twisting of his stomach and looked back over to the guitarist, who snatched it out of the air and blew one back.

A glimmer of hope shined in his heart, through the foreboding cloud of anxiety, and he manages to untangle the pretzel that his insides have contorted into. Right. Maybe she was actually looking at Lance and he just assumed otherwise. Nothing was wrong here. This was their Christmas concert, nothing could be wrong, nothing could  _ go  _ wrong. Nyma was probably just joking around with Rolo, or something like that. Yeah, Keith was observant, more so than other people, but he was also paranoid and jumped to conclusions way faster than others would. Nothing was wrong here.

Even telling himself that, there was a niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that wouldn’t go away.

Keith shakes his head at himself, chastising the way he was acting. Jumping to conclusions, that was all he was doing. He just needed to relax and listen to the music. Speaking of music, Lance was signaling the beginning of the next song. He tilts his head up, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, as Nyma starts plucking out a tune. A familiar tune. Keith’s eyebrows skyrocket towards his hairline as the drums start and Lance begins to dance.

Lance starts to  _ dance _ .

The boy has hips that know how to move, as he shimmies back and forth, doing a box step with his feet in front of the microphone, as the Latin-influenced melody surges from the speakers. A few people whistle and cheer, while others laugh, but Keith doesn’t join any of them in his reaction. Instead of acting like a normal person, his mouth was hanging agape, his cheeks painted ruddy red, at the sight of Lance dancing like that. He moves in such a fluid way, with hips rolling and body following, that it was impossible not to stare. And then, of all things to come out of his mouth, it had to be  _ Spanish _ .

“ _ Feliz navidad, _ ” he croons into the microphone, and a few people hoot and holler, while Keith just  _ stares _ , “ _ feliz navidad _ ,” Keith covers his face with his hands and audibly groans, unable to handle this, “ _ feliz navidad, prospero año y felicidad! _ ” Not Lance’s dancing, not his Spanish singing, not his amazing band or his stupid face or his radiant grin or his cute outfit, not  _ Lance _ . He suffers in silence through the rest of the song, watching Lance through the gaps in his fingers. And he smiles, and dances, taking the mic with him from one band member to another, until the song finishes with a flourish.

Lance grins at the crowd, soaking in the praise like a sponge, as he sets the microphone back in its stand. He looks like he’s about to say something, to address the crowd with more hype talk, and Keith finally lowers his hands so he can watch Lance fully, but then he’s stopped by a manicured hand on his shoulder. He glances over his shoulder in surprise, following the length of the umber-colored arm up to the wicked smile on Nyma’s painted lips. Keith’s stomach drops back to the floor once more, as she leans down and whispers something in Lance’s ear. It’s nothing bad, apparently, as his lips split into a wide grin. Turning to face Nyma, he manages a couple of quick nods before he turns back to the microphone. Nyma looks back towards the curtain and saunters over to it, talking quietly with the person behind it. Keith bites his lower lip, worrying the skin between his teeth, as his mind follows a similar path. Lance, dear sweet oblivious Lance, is speaking into the microphone, addressing everyone with excitement coloring his tone.

“Merry Christmas, everyone! It seems our Nyma has written a song for me, and wants to sing it tonight! Guess I get a great Christmas present, huh?” Everyone cheers, whistles, spurrs them on, and Keith cannot quell the raging storm in his abdomen, as Lance walks to the side of the stage, still able to be seen, and the other band members walk away from their instruments as well. Hunk hooks an arm around Shay’s waist, whispering to each other with confused looks on their faces. Pidge has an equally concerned look on her own face, though she abandons her keyboard as well to stand off to the side.

Rolo comes out from behind the curtain.

He adjusts the mic stand. He takes Nyma’s guitar from her and straps it on himself, adjusting the knobs a bit and strumming a small tune to prepare for the chords.

Nyma gingerly wraps her hands around the microphone and looks over at Lance, keeping her eyes on him as she speaks, addressing him.

“This song is specifically for you, Lance. Merry Christmas.”

There’s no mirth in her voice, in her tone, no playful cant to the syllables, and there’s only wickedness in the curl of her lips, in the glint of her eyes. Her manicured nails look like claws. Rolo’s smiling, but it looks  _ mean _ , his eyes are shifty, dangerous. Keith sucks in a breath.  There’s nothing good about this situation, nothing at  _ all _ , his veins are filled with ice and lead, and he can’t look at Nyma and Rolo right now. His gaze flicks over to Lance, with his grin and his arms crossed over his chest, expectantly waiting for the first words of a love song to come out of Nyma’s full lips.

They don’t come.

Rolo strums out a handful of chords for a measure, and then Nyma comes in, having dropped the nasal pitch from her previous performance to a heavier, fuller timbre. Her words may sound warm, but they shoot ice through Keith’s every blood cell, “ _ if I loved you, life would be easy, there’d be no truth, that I’d be scared of, _ ” she croons. And Keith cannot rip his eyes away from Lance, whose smile as dropped from his face, with brows knitted together, as if he wasn’t sure how to feel. The crowd whispers.

“ _ We could walk through every valley and you’d light me with all of your love _ ,” she pauses for a moment, taking in a breath. The crowd falls silent. Lance looks on in confusion. Keith feels his heart thudding loudly in his eardrums.

“ _ But I don’t love you, not like you want to, _ ” Lance’s mouth falls open, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline, and Keith’s icy anxiety flares up into anger, boiling his blood. He rips his gaze from the hurt Lance over to Nyma, who is still staring at the frontman. Her smile is so cruel. Keith feels the need to punch it off her face.  _ What type of monstrous witch would do this to someone, in front of more than a hundred people, on fucking Christmas? _

Keith glares daggers into Nyma and Rolo, both of which have their attention focused on Lance. Nyma’s hand rests on the guitar tech’s shoulder as he fingers the chords and strums the melody. Keith grits his teeth, hands balled into fists, as she sings to Lance the most horrible words, “ _ I don’t love you and that makes it hard, and every morning I see how you watch me, and each night I know you feel it and it just breaks your heart _ .”

He looks over to Lance, the anger in his gut dissipating at the sight. He’s stone-faced, glaring, but he looks like he’s shaking. His grip on his shirt sleeves is tight enough to crease the fabric. Lance looks exactly like Nyma says;  _ heartbroken _ .

To further drive that knife in, twisting it and wrenching the worst reactions from Lance, Nyma continues to sing, crooning her awful lyrics into the microphone. She speaks with venom in the tone of her song, Rolo strums the chords out with bitter intent, the song is a miasma of negativity, and Keith can hear it in every measure, every beat. He can’t bring himself to look at Lance again, unsure if he’ll find the frontman in tears or not, and, instead, turns to look at the other members of the band.

Hunk is physically restraining Pidge, who looks ready to launch herself across the stage and rip Nyma’s dreads right out of her head, while Shay watches the scene in abject horror. Her hands are over her mouth, staring at the scene unfolding. The crowd shifts restlessly. Someone coughs awkwardly. Nyma and Rolo continue to play, picking up in speed and intensity, the strength of their song increasing with every passing second. She starts to hold her notes for a bit longer, dragging out the punishment. Keith’s blood boils again, lighting him on fire from the inside out. It’s not a good warmth, not like Lance gives him when he sings, not like Quintessence’s music settling in the pit of his stomach like a welcome fire on a cold winter night. No, the nature of these flames is steeped in chemicals, unnatural, violent,  _ explosive _ . Keith shakes where he’s stood, barely suppressing the urge to jump up there and physically show her how she’s making Lance feel.

_ Lance _ .

Keith’s head whips around to Lance. The song is crescendoing, getting louder, Rolo is harmonizing in his scratchy voice, singing along with Nyma. And Lance. Lance is stood off to the side, his expression neutral, his eyes are dark. That smile that’s ever present on his lips is gone. His hands are balled into fists at his sides. Is he angry? Is he sad? Is he some horrific combination of the two? Or is he just numb? Keith can’t tell. He’s so used to seeing nothing but pure joy on his face that the new emotionless expression is hard to decipher.

“ _ And it just breaks your heart _ ,” she sings in the microphone for the last time, carrying the lyric on at the end for another two measures, as if she really wants to drive the point home. The crowd does not break out into thunderous applause when they stop, they don’t cheer or holler or anything. They stand, stunned into silence. Nyma, all wicked smiles and clawed fingernails, blows a kiss at Lance, hooks arms with the smug faced Rolo, and they both saunter off the stage. A few people boo at them, some yell obscenities, and others just stare in shocked silence. Rolo says something into Nyma’s ear. She throws her head back and cackles. They step out of the venue, the wind is whipping outside, and there’s a torrent of rain cascading down on the city below. Keith watches, enraged, as the door shuts behind them.

He hears movement from the stage, and then a high-pitched whine screeches from the speakers, a sign of microphone feedback. Keith turns to face the front, watching as the stone-faced Lance grabs the microphone off the stand, brings it to his lips, and speaks, monotone, with not a hint of emotion in his tone. Keith’s heart breaks into pieces at every emotionless syllable.

“Merry Christmas. Show’s over.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Keith was one of the last people to leave the venue. Most people put up a fuss at first, but walked out without much of a fight after Lance stormed off stage, disappearing behind the thick curtains of backstage. Hunk was the first to run after him, with Shay following, and Pidge bringing up the rear. They didn’t stop to address the crowd. Keith stayed, waiting, straining to hear something, as the crowd dispersed behind him, until he was the only person left in the building. He couldn’t hear anything from behind the curtains, yet he still waited. For what? He didn’t know. He felt equal parts outraged and heartbroken, though his own feelings must have been a simple candle compared to the raging fire that was likely consuming Lance. He had no right to be there. Keith waited for another moment before turning and walking out of the building, letting the double doors slam shut behind him. 

The rain and wind buffets him the minute he steps out of the sheltered entrance to the venue. He yanks the hood of his thin sweatshirt over his head, scowling as he runs across the street to his moped, which is teetering on the kickstand dangerously. Keith isn’t the least bit worried about messing his hair up; not now, at the very least. He throws the hood off only to pull his helmet on instead, strapping it on under his chin, and straddles the wet leather of the moped seat. It purrs when he turns it on, though he can’t hear it over the howl of the wind rocking him to-and-fro as he revs the engine and takes off towards his apartment.

He’s glad he knows the way to his apartment complex by heart, because the rain makes it difficult to see more than a dozen feet in front of him. The weather also makes it its mission to soak him to the bone, as his hoodie darkens with water clinging to every fiber and his jeans feel uncomfortably heavy as they stick to his skin. He has to drive slower than usual, carefully finding his way out of the concrete jungle and back towards the edges of the inner city. Thankfully, he makes it back to his apartment without an incident (wouldn’t that have been the cherry on top of today; watching his favorite band, and favorite frontman, effectively broken, and then getting into a car accident). The blessed warmth of the building welcomes him with open arms, though it does nothing to stop the icy prickles of dread that poke at his skin. His phone hasn’t buzzed with notifications from Twitter, not from Quintessence or from Lance himself. Keith feels sick to his stomach as he ascends the steps of the walk-up.

His apartment seems so dark when he walks in, the lights are all off, and the storm outside hides the sun that has surely started to sink below the horizon by now. Foreboding. The shadows seem to taunt him from the corners of the room as he steps into the studio apartment. He pays them no mind, leaning against the door as he was, while he yanks his boots off and leaves them in the entryway, haphazardly tossed to the side. Even his socks feel soaked. Keith pulls them off as well, hating the feeling of wet socks on, and pads across the carpet to his laundry basket (which is too full, he needs to stay on top of that). His other clothes join the wet pile soon enough, though he doesn’t stay undressed for long, not with the bite of the winter chill seeping into his bones. Keith numbly pulls on a pair of ratty, fleece-lined sweats and a baggy sweater, plus a new pair of socks (his feet were  _ cold _ ). He drags his feet as he makes his way to the curtain that separates his bed from the rest of the apartment, pulls it back, and flops on his bed, narrowly missing his laptop, which he couldn’t see in the almost pitch-black darkness that’s settled in his apartment.

With nothing else to occupy his mind, like walking or his sopping wet clothes, he’s forced to think about tonight. Keith presses the heels of his palm to his eyes, watching the scene play in technicolor on the inside of his eyelids. Everything was more exaggerated in his head. Nyma’s behavior was more pronounced, her fingernails sharpened to claws, her smile wicked and full of pointy teeth. Lance was broken, beaten down, and there were tears in his eyes in his head. He hadn’t stayed silent in his imagination; he’d heard the first word that Nyma had sang and jumped up there to stop her from hurting Lance, even if it meant that Lance would have hated him. Keith’s lips pulled into a snarl, as he thought of Rolo and Nyma walking through the crowd, sauntering away from the broken pieces of Quintessence. The anger that surged through him was equal parts ice and fire, lighting his body ablaze and freezing it moments after. He wished he’d done something, said something, while he still had the chance. He  _ wished _ \--

His phone trilled loudly from where it sat in his pocket.

A notification.

Keith yanked his phone out of his pocket, struggling with icy fingertips to tap in his passcode. He tapped on the Twitter notification to open it up, waiting with bated breath as the screen loaded and the tweet became visible. The ice surging through his veins settled in the pit of his stomach, turning his insides into a tundra. The winter chill wasn’t the only thing freezing Keith on Christmas Day. His breath caught in his throat as he read through the tweet once, twice, three times. Slowly. Then quickly. Then slow once more. He shut his eyes, pressed his forehead to the screen, obscuring the words from anyone’s view. Like he could erase what they said, and what they meant, by shutting his eyes and closing his ears. Not that he could escape them, branded on his retinas as they were.

**Quintessence Official (@quintessence)** :  In light of extenuating circumstances, Quintessence will be taking an indefinite hiatus. Merry Christmas.

Keith lets out a hollow bark of laughter, unable to get the numb, bitter way that Lance ended the show out of his head. It rang in his ears, beat him senseless with every syllable.  _ Merry Christmas. Show’s over _ . Indefinite hiatus. Keith bit into his lower lip, hard enough to bruise, before he echoed the sentiment into the silent, dark apartment.

“Merry Christmas.” It came out broken sounding. Empty.

The wind and rain howled in agreement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty!! Thank you so much for reading this chapter, I'm sorry it's so short compared to the others. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> As for the songs that they played: the first one is On Top of the World by Imagine Dragons, the second is Santa Baby by Ariana Grande, the third one is Make it Mine by Jason Mraz, the fourth is Feliz Navidad (forgot who it was by LOL), and the last one is If I Loved You by Delta Rae


	4. Please Don't Tell Her, Oh Lover.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith goes from the motions, waiting for Quintessence's hiatus to be over. And, the first show without Nyma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Songs featured in this chapter: 
> 
> Please Don't Tell Her by Jason Mraz   
> Cake By The Ocean by DNCE   
> Sing by Ed Sheeran   
> O. Lover by Jason Mraz
> 
> hope y'all like it! Please listen to the songs after you finish reading the chapter!!

Keith goes through the motions.

His Twitter doesn’t go off for the next few weeks, offering no reprieve from the day-to-day. No news from Lance, no news from Quintessence. He listens to their singles. He remembers that night. He thinks of Lance. He worries about him, about Quintessence. A news article online covers what happened to the “up-and-up band that they had their eyes on”. Keith reads it and relives the night in painstaking detail. He stays up late and wakes up later. Red starts to collect dust from where she sits in the corner, neglected. He debates picking her up and playing her. He decides not to.

Keith goes through the motions.

Work after Christmas is full of processing returns. It’s a welcome distraction, from thoughts that plague his every other waking moment, although it’s tiring and annoying to deal with. He’s shouted at more times than he can count on both sets of fingers and toes. He almost shouts back, exhausted as he was, almost succumbs to his anger management issues. Barely restrained, he makes it through the next few days, as they tick down to the end of the year. He works almost every day until the last day of the year. He’s not much of a drinker, but, alone in his apartment, he nurses a few bottles of fruity malt liquor, as the minutes wind down to the beginning of the new year. Shiro had invited him to join them at a private function at Allura’s club. He’d politely declined. He rings in the new year by kissing the long neck of the chilled bottle in his hands, Lance’s voice crooning, slightly staticky, through the speakers of his laptop.

Keith goes through the motions.

The weather bites at him whenever he leaves his house, which isn’t often, save for going to work. The contents of his pantry and fridge mock him whenever he opens them to scrounge for food. He’s sorely reminded that he needs to keep on top of things, when he ends up spending the better half of a day in the apartment complex’s shared laundry room, with three baskets full of dirty laundry. The rest of the day is spent folding and putting the clothes away. He wakes the next day with a renewed sense of vigor, and stocks his pantry and fridge with essentials, trying to take care of himself a little more. The days come and go.

Keith goes through the motions.

His routine is interrupted on a brisk late-January afternoon as he walks hurriedly from the heated interior of the mall towards his moped, hands stuffed into his pockets. His phone vibrates, an unfamiliar sensation after almost a month of silence, save for texts from Shiro and various emails. Keith fishes his phone out of his pockets, regretting it as the chill nips at his fingertips like an angry cat. He ignores it and taps his passcode in, swiping down from the top to expose his notification list. There’s only one line, and the icon is a familiar bird set against a cyan background.

Keith’s heart speeds up, banging against his ribcage.

He’s stopped walking, staring at his phone as he shakily taps his thumb against the notification line. The application opens up. The tweet loads. Keith sucks in the biting winter air, as his cheeks warm and a smile spreads across his face despite himself. He kicks his feet, feeling the warmth spread through him from the top of his head to his toes. He can’t help but let out a slight (embarrassing, so embarrassing) squeal that bubbles up in his throat. Keith clutches the phone to his chest, jumping up and down in place as the tweet settles on his mind.

**Quintessence Official (@quintessence)** :  Hiatus OVER. Let’s feel the love @JuniberriesClub in a few weeks. Don’t miss it! Comeback concert, Feb 14th, 10:00 PM.

Keith runs the rest of the way to his moped, feeling absolutely giddy. He’s done going through the motions; a guitar is calling his name, and there’s a concert coming up that he’ll be at the very front of.  _ Hiatus over. _ He’s never read a better sentence before.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few weeks pass in a blur. Keith goes to work, eats meals he cooks at home more often than he goes out (for once), he plays Red in the evenings, he listens to Quintessence, and, with every day he crosses off the calendar, he grows more and more excited. It bleeds into everything he does, from the way he approaches customers at work (he’s closed more sales than he ever has before. Shiro’s been concerned at his pep.) to the way he plays Red. She  _ sings _ under his touch, bringing forth chords and sounds that Keith wasn’t aware he could make. Red purrs through every strum of his guitar pick, and he can feel her thrum happily when he picks the strings  _ just  _ right. He can tell there’s something different in the way he plays. It’s more vigorous, more emotional. He’s speaking with a different dialect. He can only hope it’s a good one.

The night before the concert finds Keith sleepless, the excitement that has been building inside of him reaching a crescendo and refusing to let him sleep. He tosses and turns, begging for the throes of slumber to pull him under. Finally, when he turns to check the clock and finds the time 4:30 AM staring back at him, he throws the covers off and stalks over to the couch. Red finds her place in his lap, and his fingers find their place on the chords. He leaves her unplugged, playing soft and acoustic nonsense melodies. She sings in tune with his exhausted excitement, playing a song that is equal measures of languid and plucky. Keith closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine things that he normally wouldn’t, but it was an unholy hour of the morning, and he was tired, and he didn’t care. He slipped into a scene he’d entertained quite a few times before, painted in technicolor, in exquisite detail.

The lights burn him relentlessly, shining up at him, obscuring his view of the crowd and turning them into a mass of writhing limbs. Red hangs from his neck, a welcome presence, as his calloused fingers lay on the six strings stretched taut along her neck. There are people on the stage with him. A girl with a mint green bass and cropped brown hair stands across from him, grinning out towards the endless sea of people. There’s another person near her, standing at a keyboard, with her fingers placed delicately on the keys. He turns his head to see a man at a sunshine yellow drum kit, with the brightest smile, his hands gripping two drumsticks that are dwarfed by the size of the appendages. And, in the front, with his back to him, is, undeniably, Lance. The lights illuminate him from the front, but he would be able to tell what that cropped thatch of dusty brown hair was anywhere. He can’t help but grin, a smile breaking apart his lips, as Lance turns to look at him.

His alarm screams at him, blaring from the speakers of his phone, which he can still hear all the way across the room, slumped on the arm of the couch with Red laying in his lap.

Keith jerks awake, suddenly alert, as the alarm continues to ring. It was a generic tone; he couldn’t set Quintessence to his alarm, seeing as he sometimes listened to their music while trying to fall asleep. He groans, gently setting Red on the couch beside him before he begrudgingly hauls himself off of the comfortable spot he’d settled in and drags his feet towards the source of the pesky noise. His bones protest with every movement, the position not exactly comfortable to sleep in for long periods of time. Keith yanks the curtains surrounding his bed back and throws himself on the plush mattress, groaning tiredly into the pillow while he blindly gropes for his phone. The device, screaming at him, was hidden underneath one of his pillows. He grabs it, unwillingly turning his head so he can blearily glare at the screen and shut off his alarm. The time stares at him from the top of the screen.

Huh. Five o’clock. In the evening.

Keith bolts upright, his phone gripped in his hands so tight he swears he could crush it. How long had he slept?! He throws the phone on the bed and bolts out of the darkened corner of his apartment, mumbling about never needing to sleep again as he grabbed for his outfit and a fresh towel. The pair of slightly shredded coal black skinny jeans hung off his arm, along with a basic grey v-neck with sleeves the same shade as his pants. He would pull on one of his jackets later, and a pair of red Converse. Keith would be damned if he was caught in anything other than one of his best outfits for Quintessence’s comeback concert.

The shower welcomes him with its hot, albeit weak, spray, washing down his back in rivulets. He takes his time, Lance’s croon serenading him as he lathers his hair up, as he lets the conditioner soak into his hair, as he scrubs himself down with a heavenly smelling body wash. Squeaky clean, with excitement surging through his veins like electricity, Keith yanks on his clothes and gets started on his hair. It’s a process, but it’s a process he loves to go through. It’s all worth it when he sprays the light hold hairspray and turns his head from side-to-side to inspect his handiwork.  _ Perfect _ .

He shuts down his laptop, silencing Lance in the middle of a verse, and snatches up his phone. There’s a text message and a few Twitter notifications to look at, which he does as he makes his way out of the restroom and towards the kitchen area. Quintessence is already tweeting about the concert, saying they have a “special surprise” planned as their first and last songs of the set. The excitement that has settled to a dull buzz in his veins flares up in a jolt, a smile tugging at his lips. Keith lets the smile break through as he checks the next notification from Lance, which is an artsy, black-and-white selfie of him in front of a mirror. He stares at the photo, drinking in every detail, from the haphazardly laced boots to the fitted jeans, to the hoodie tied around his waist and hanging loosely around his hips, to the shirt that read “MR. A-Z” on it, to the beanie slouched over his thatch of brown hair. His phone obscures his face, but Keith can more than survive off of the picture. He almost saves it and sets it as his background.  _ Almost _ . But he’s gotta draw the fanboy line sometime, and that sometime is now.

His stomach gurgles at him, snapping him away from the picture (and his finger away from the save button) and back into the present. Right, food. A cursory glance at the time tells him he still has about an hour to go before he should drive over to Juniberries. Enough time to eat. He props his phone up on the counter and starts his usual playlist, letting the sounds wash over him as he grabs leftovers out of the fridge. Nothing special, just some rice and curry that he managed to throw together with only a little (okay, a lot) of help from Google. He tosses the container into the microwave and meanders back over to his phone. There’s a new notification on the screen, a text message now. Keith taps the line and watches the application load, with Shiro’s name at the very top.

**Shiro:** Are u coming to the show tonite? :)

Keith has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Shiro always types like a dad trying to connect with their kid. He taps out a reply, being honest for once.

**Keith:** yeah i am. why do you ask

It only takes a moment for Shiro to respond, which Keith hears as he fishes his tupperware out of the microwave and stirs it all together. He takes a bite and frowns. Still cold. He throws it back in for another minute, scooping his phone up and opening up the next text line while he waits for his food to heat up.

**Shiro:** Figured u’d be! Do u want a ride? :) I’m going and it would mean u won’t have to take ur moped.

Keith hurriedly agrees, wanting to avoid the chill that bit at him whenever he drove anywhere. Besides, it also meant he had even more time to waste at home before he had to go. The microwave beeps at him, and he opens it to reveal the bubbling curry, ready to be eaten. Shiro texts him back, saying he’d be there around 8:30 PM to pick him up, which he responds to with a thumbs-up emoji and a smile. Another two hours to relax. He almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Red glints at him from where she’s still propped up on the couch.

He knows exactly what to do with himself.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Shiro walks in the door of his apartment, Keith is busy shredding out a solo from one of his favorite songs, fingers flying along the chords faster than he’s ever done before. Red sings so beautifully under his touch, so loudly that he actually doesn’t hear his best friend walk in. It’s only when he draws out the last note, letting the solo wind down, does he actually realize that Shiro is standing, absolutely dumbstruck, in the middle of the apartment, watching him with wide eyes. He feels heat crawl up his neck, even as he turns to place Red back on her stand and unplug the amp. Exhilarated energy runs through him with every beat of his heart against his ribcage, though it ebbs as Shiro approaches him. When he turns to look at him, he expects to be lectured on chasing his dream again. What he doesn’t expect is Shiro to place his hands on Keith’s shoulders and to grin down at him. The sight brings an unwelcome flush to his cheeks, that childhood crush making itself present every time Shiro so much as looks at him. (He’s completely over it, by the way, one hundred percent. Guy was just too damn handsome for his own good.)

“Keith, that was… amazing,” Shiro breathes out, and Keith braces himself for the ‘now play for other people’ spiel. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Shiro claps him on the shoulders and pivots on his foot to briskly walk towards the door, leaving Keith confused and panting slightly from his performance, “now, come on, we gotta get going. Ever since the Nyma incident, Quintessence has gotten a lot more popular. You’re gonna wanna be there early to get to the front of the crowd.”

_ That _ shocks him out of his confusion, as he runs towards the front door with phone and a red faux leather jacket in hand. Shiro is already pulling his shoes back on, which Keith joins him in, tugging the well-worn red converse on and lacing them up snugly. He snatches his house keys and wallet out of the bowl near the door, beating Shiro to the staircase and taking them two at a time down to the ground floor, a stark contrast to the first time they’d done this, months ago. Shiro is smiling at him, amused at his reactions, but there’s a glint of something else in his eyes that Keith isn’t sure if he likes or not. He ignores it, more focused on the fact that he’d be seeing Quintessence live for the first time in over a month, which, let’s admit, wasn’t even that long. Even though it’d felt like years, it was only a month and a half. Really, Keith knew he was being a bit dramatic, but they were his favorite band! He listened to them every day and had seen more of their concerts in the span of two months than he really should have.

Shiro unlocks the car and Keith dives in, reveling in the residual warmth left over from its previous drive. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and tries not to let his leg bounce with unrestrained energy, as Shiro slides the key into the ignition and turns on the car. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t badger Keith with anything, just lets the radio play aimlessly while Keith takes in his surroundings during the drive. Nothing new, same old concrete jungle welcoming them with open arms as they take the city streets towards Juniberries. A comfortable and easy silence sits in the car that Keith soaks in, the only background noise being the gentle purr of the car and the soft sounds pouring from the speakers. Night has already fallen on the city and the streetlights have already turned on, washing the city streets in a hazy yellow, with shadows creeping out of their hiding spots in alleyways to settle between the halos that the streetlights cast on the ground below them. Keith thinks he could wax poetic about the scenery all day if he had the time. As it is, the yellow haze is being pervaded by a vibrant violet hue, the telltale sign that they were there, as Shiro parks the car across the street.

Keith immediately opens the door of the car, stepping out into the chilly February evening, and bolts across the street like an excited child. Shiro takes his time, making a show of turning off the heater and the radio, unbuckling his seatbelt, leaving Keith on the other side of the street, shifting from foot to foot restlessly. It’s really only a few moments, but Keith swears it’s more like half an hour before Shiro finally leaves the warm sanctity of the vehicle and meanders across the street, hands stuffed into the pockets of his black slacks. His best friend has a knowing smirk on his lips, and that mischievous glint in his eyes that Keith was trying to ignore earlier. He purses his lips, ignoring the excitement that is electrifying his veins in favor of interrogating Shiro.

“What are you looking at me like that for?” Keith asks, his words visible in the air in front of him, the chill coloring every breath in pale white. Even now, as they inch towards springtime, the night is still cold enough to bite at his nose and make him shiver. Shiro doesn’t seem affected, not by the cold or his question, as he strolls on past him and into the entryway. Keith’s brows pull together, slightly irritated at being ignored, though he turns and follows Shiro anyways.

The bouncer lets them in without a word, knowing what the pair looked like by now and knowing they were both more than welcome. The bass that was always muted from the outside starts to beat inside of Keith, thrumming through him. The center stage is dark, though he can tell that the drum kit is already set up, sitting in the shadows as it was. Shiro turns and waves at him, pointing in the direction of Allura’s office and cocking an eyebrow. Keith nods and Shiro smiles apologetically before the crowd swallows him and leaves Keith standing alone in the middle of the pulsating club. It’s Valentine’s Day and the building is surprisingly packed, or, perhaps it’s unsurprisingly, as Keith glances to the dance floor and sees the throng of people all grinding against each other like dogs in heat. His lip curls in disgust, knowing he has to brave them to get to the front of the crowd so he could see the stage the best. The things he does for music.

Keith pulls his phone out to check the time and turn his data on so he can check Twitter, wanting to avoid being in the pit for as long as possible. He knows he looks out of place; Juniberries is more of a classy club and he looks nothing short of a punk kid, what with the red and the black and the faux leather. He doesn’t care though, it makes it easier to avoid people. Keith meanders over to the wall, pressing himself against the plush white walls as if they would open up and swallow him whole. The club is awash in fluorescents that color the room in soft reds and pinks, changing the hues of the purples and violets around the room to deep burgundies and maroons. Keith ignores it all in favor of opening up his phone and tapping on the Twitter notifications he has waiting for him.

Quintessence tweeted a few backstage photos. They all have a suspicious lack of Lance’s presence in them. Keith squashes the disappointment that coils in his gut and exits the application to load up Facebook instead, losing himself in that instead. Just a distraction. He ends up watching some hairstyling and manicure videos for half an hour, engrossed in the art, even though he doesn’t ever feel a need to do anything with his nails or hair other than what he already does to them. When he finally glances up from watching a woman style her hair in a “rose bun” (he shared it and tagged Allura in it, it looked like something she would do), he notices the center stage lights are on and the band is getting set up on stage. As always, there’s no Lance yet.

But there’s also no Nyma.

There’s no guitarist at all. 

Keith stares, dumbstruck at the revelation. They didn’t go out and get a replacement for her. They were going to play without a guitarist? Shay was still holding her bass, so it didn’t look like she was filling in for the guitar, and Pidge didn’t look like she could even  _ hold _ a guitar, let alone play one. Keith pushes off from the wall and stalks towards the pit, screwing up his courage and forcing himself to brave the crowd of gyrating people to get to the front. He gets groped and almost pulled into a line of  people grinding but he manages to make it to the front and get a better look at everyone. Hunk has a smirk on his face, as does Shay and Pidge, looking conspiratorial as they set up their instruments and run through soundcheck. Keith thinks back to the tweet about having a special surprise. What were they planning?

He doesn’t have time to think about it, not before Lance is running out on stage. His breath catches in his throat as he stares up at Lance, illuminated in the stage lights, wearing the outfit he’d posted online. The grayscale photo didn’t do his outfit justice. His jeans are olive green and hug the curves of his legs nicely, juxtaposed against the tan of his boots and the slate grey of the hoodie still tied around his waist. His shirt hangs loosely around his hips, but is stretched tight over his chest and shoulders, the “MR. A-Z” imprinted in black on the fabric, a stark contrast to the cool grey of his t-shirt. The beanie on his head matches the color of the hoodie slung around his waist, nicely tying the whole outfit together. Keith can’t help but admire his fashion choices, as he drinks in the sight, before he finally lingers on Lance’s expression.

Or, more like his lack thereof.

Like back at the Christmas show, he looks numb. His face is flat, even as he taps on the microphone and does sound check, even as he warms up his voice. Like he doesn’t want to be there. Keith’s heart twists uncomfortably in his sternum.  _ Nyma, you witch _ , Keith can’t help but think, his lips curling into a frown. He stares at the frontman, whose gaze is wandering over the crowd, searching. He ends up wondering what he could do, as just a fan. He couldn’t do  _ anything _ , not really, save for support their music, which he’d probably do until his dying day, honestly.  _ What the hell was he looking for? _

Lance gaze darts across the crowd, his lips pursed, and lands on him. Keith’s heart decides to twist again, especially as the other man’s lips part in a smile, the first drop of emotion Keith had seen on his face since he walked on stage. What. He gapes, Lance’s eyes shift away from him and up, before he turns to face Shay, saying something that couldn’t be heard over the boom of the bass drum on the speakers overhead, though she looks excited and nods happily at Lance. Keith stays dumbstruck where he’s stood, staring up at the back of Lance’s head with his mouth hanging open.

_ What _ .

He can’t help but reel from just the simple look that Lance had given him, mind running a mile a minute away from him. What did that look mean? Was it meant for him? Was it someone  _ behind _ him? That made way more sense than it being directed at him, because, why would it be directed at him in the first place, he was just a groupie. Keith wills his heart to slow down, though it seems determined to break his ribcage in its excitement. He presses his hands against his hot cheeks, hoping they’d stop burning so he could get his head in the right place. Holy hell. Keith is so engrossed in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even realize that the music fades out and Allura’s voice replaces it until she shouts the band’s name over the speakers.

“Please welcome Quintessence back to the stage!” Allura booms over the sound system and the crowd cheers, much louder than the last concert that Keith had been to. He’s almost deafened by it, and he wonders how many people are here for Quintessence and how many are here just because they’re lonely on Valentine’s day. He wonders how many are here for both reasons.

His gaze snaps up to Lance, locked on him, as he takes his place in front of the microphone stand, gripping the mic with both hands. Hunk clicks the drumsticks together to count down the beats, and Lance’s eyes slip shut, obscuring those stormy blue eyes from view. He whispers into the microphone, loud enough to be heard, but low enough that it gives his voice a breathy quality.

“ _ Guitar _ .”

Keith’s stomach jumps, his head whipping over to stare at the spot where Nyma usually is. There’s no one there. The crowd around him shifts a bit, restless, like they were waiting for the joke, the punchline to hit. Lance lets out a breathy laugh, and Hunk starts the drum beat, with Shay’s fingers weaving the bassline in, all while Pidge plays a melody on her keyboard. An up and down beat, hitting hard on one note and slightly softer the next, for a few measures, leading up to where the frontman will add his voice to the unbalanced mix of sounds. Without the guitar, their dialect is off kilter. Keith stares at the frontman, gauging his reactions to the song, and can’t help but feel his heartstrings tug at the expression he has. Lance’s eyes stay shut, eyebrows pulled together, pure emotion on his face, It’s raw and it’s hurt, and Keith wonders how rough the past two months must have been for Lance. He regrets not doing anything at the Christmas show once more, like he has for a while now.

Lance opens his mouth and starts to sing-- or, more appropriately, rap? Whatever it was, it was melodic and fast-paced, but flowed smoothly, like he’d practiced it endlessly, wanting it to be perfect.

“ _ I hear she's kickin' ass across the board and rock two hundred thousand higher scorer, just in time to save the world of being taken over _ ,” he pauses and his lips pull into a smile that’s equal parts pain and fondness, “ _ she’s a warrior _ .” Keith knows immediately who he’s singing about and  _ fuck _ does it hurt to listen to. Lance doesn’t stop in his refrain, moving straight into the next set of lyrics, “ _ I couldn't play again because the game it’d never end, it never even landed on the can, and never let me in to spend my quarter,”  _ his eyes open, hands dropping down from the mic to sweep outwards, his foot bouncing against the stage floor to keep time as he sings the next lyric.

“ _ There’s no love for me no more, _ ” Keith gasps a bit, staring at the blatant hurt in his eyes, and presses his hand against his chest to try and stop the incessant painful throbbing of his heart, while Lance moves into the bridge, the piano and the drums falling out of the melody, leaving him singing over the bassline.

“ _ Say it isn’t so _ ,” Keith bites into his lower lip, watching him pour his heart into every line, a desperate make-up song, “ _ how she easily come, how she easy go _ ,” Lance presses his hands to his chest like Keith’s doing, against his heart, and he wonders if he’s trying to quell the rapid beating just like Keith is, “ _ please don’t tell her, that I’ve been meaning to miss her _ .”

The bassline cuts out, leaving the club awash in silence, waiting with bated breath for the next lyric. Lance’s morose expression, the downturn of his lips, the arch of his brow, the sadness that colors his stormy eyes; they all melt away as his mouth twists into a self-satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting with mischievousness and mirth. He breathes the next line into the microphone.

“ _ Because I don’t _ .”

He drags the note out, longer than necessary, like he was driving the message home.  _ There’s _ the punchline. The crowd  _ roars _ in assent to his statement, Keith staring up at him, feeling dumbstruck, blindsided by what he thought was a make-up song. His lips pull apart in a wide smile, much like the one that Lance was wearing right now, like a man that’d gotten the last laugh and, in this case, he was getting it. This song was for Nyma, for the way she’d tried to tear Lance to shreds, for singing ‘if I loved you’ like a curse, expecting Lance to bow his head and bite his tongue and be  _ heartbroken _ . And maybe he had been heartbroken, for a moment. But now, he was merciless in his response.  _ Please don’t tell her that I’ve been meaning to miss her, because I don’t. _

Keith thinks it’s the biggest, most subtle ‘fuck you’ he’s ever heard in song format. He fucking loves it. 

His lyrics have switched from their somber tone over to a sarcastic lilt, as the band joins back in again, the drums and bassline weaving into each other seamlessly. The lack of the guitar chords still leaves something to be desired, but Keith barely notices it over the lyrics that Lance is singing into the microphone, pantomiming and being generally sarcastic the whole time. He sweeps through the second verse and on into the bridge, the melody crescendoing behind him before it ceases as he yanks the microphone from its stand and belts the second part of the chorus out.

“ _ Cause she don’t really need to know, that I’m crazy like the rest of us! _ ” Hunk and Shay join in again, the pair looking exhilarated at Lance’s exuberant performance, as he draws out notes until he sounds hoarse. It might not be the  _ best _ song they’ve ever done, but it is the most raw and powerful that Keith has ever heard. He hangs on every word while Lance leads on into the third verse, back to talking with his hands and singing with his heart. Keith loves the snide undertone to the lyrics, and the way that Lance sings them, like he knows that his response is a thousand times better than the original jab that Nyma had given him.

“ _ Please don’t dare to tell her what I’ve become _ ,” Lance fakes a pout, though it’s obvious that he’s playing it up for the dozens of people in the crowd that have their phones held high and are recording the musical ‘fuck you’, “ _ please don’t mention all the attention I have drawn, please don’t bother _ ,” his voice is crescendoing, his grin widening, “ _ cause she’ll feel guilty when I’m gone! _ ” The band falls silent, leaving Lance’s heavy breathing the only thing audible in the entire club. He sucks in a few breaths, eyes wide and arms stretched out to either side. He looks  _ alive _ , a sharp contrast to the last time Keith had seen him. A few individuals cheer him on, calling out his name, egging him on. He grabs the microphone with both hands and launches into the chorus as they all start up again, the sounds vibrating throughout the building, the floor, and up through Keith, raising gooseflesh on his skin in their wake.

“ _ Because I’m crazy like the rest of us _ ,” Lance screams into the microphone, the backbeat of his song raging on in the form of a heavy bassline and the hollered assent from the crowd, “ _ but I’m crazier when I’m next to her _ ,” he’s smiling so wide, so brilliantly, so  _ satisfied _ , “ _ and it’s amazing how she’s so self-assured _ ,” he rolls his eyes, Keith barks out a laugh, “ _ but I know she’d hate me if she knew my words _ ,” Lance presses one hand to his chest, eyes slipping shut as the song reaches the last few notes, that smile still present on his face, “ _ do I hurt anymore? Do I hurt? Well… _ ”

The drums and bassline fall out, leaving Lance singing over Pidge’s piano, soft and saccharine, “ _ I don’t. I don’t. _ ” He takes a deep breath and sings it one last time, a capella, “ _ I don’t _ .”

The song ends. The crowd  _ screams _ . Keith’s ears ring with the noise but he joins in on the yelling, until his throat feels raw. Lance basks in it, soaking up the attention like he usually does, letting the throng of people praise him and his song, until he steps up to the microphone, hands wrapping around it and effectively silencing the cheers.

“Thank you guys, sorry about the long wait,” Keith hears someone shout a ‘no, thank you’ and another tell him it was okay, along with a handful of scattered cheers, “now, we’ve got a short set for you, but I think you guys’ll really enjoy it!” Lance beams, his voice a little hoarse from the amount of power he poured into that song, and Keith can’t help but smile back, eager to listen to some new music (that he’ll likely be buying when he gets home), even with their lack of a guitarist.

Quintessence launches into their next song, relying heavily on the bass, while Lance dances around the stage and sings a lewd song about eating, “ _ cake by the ocean _ ,” that Keith is pretty sure is not about actual cake. Then, he watches in awe as Lance launches into the next song, in which he gets the audience to participate during the chorus, when he says, “ _ sing! _ ” The crowd would all echo back his tune to him, Keith included, though he ends up standing there gaping up at him when he starts the second verse, which is definitely not singing. It’s quick and spills from his lips with expertise, rapping about a mystery woman who set him, “ _ ablaze from the side of the stage _ ,” (Keith will deny that it makes his heart twist uncomfortably if anyone asked).

As the crowd’s cheers die down after the third song of the set, Lance’s eyes flick down and settle on Keith for a moment. His heart leaps into his throat, brows furrowed in confusion, while he whips his head around to check for someone behind him that he could’ve been looking at. When he turns to look up at Lance again, those eyes stay on him for a moment before he stares straight ahead again, leaving Keith to wonder what that  _ look _ meant, much as he had right before the show started.

“We’ve got one more song for you tonight,” some of the crowd grumble a bit, while others holler their assent, “and it’s for one of our biggest fans,” Lance’s grin is wolfish, Keith’s heart skips a beat. Did he mean…? No, there was no way, Keith wouldn’t let himself get swept away with false hope. Though he couldn’t help the way his heart jumped and his insides twisted in anticipation as Lance took his place at the microphone.

Hunk and Shay started first, with Hunk using his hands to tap on his drums, and Shay playing the highest notes she could on her bass guitar. Pidge joins in after a measure, and Lance follows in after the fourth measure, eyebrows waggling as he starts to sing, “ _ what’s the worst thing that could happen? We could change our minds. That seems to be the hardest topic at this time _ .” Keith stares up at him in confusion, wondering why it felt like the song was directed at him when it obviously couldn’t have been.

Lance goes through the rest of the first verse before he pulls the microphone off of its stand and moves it to the side, still singing the whole time, “ _ I know you’ve got something burning up inside, it’s so unhealthy but so good for me _ ,” Keith can’t help but flush, thinking of his rather… unhealthy obsession with Quintessence and, more specifically, Lance, and, fuck, the lyrics  _ fit _ . Although, that can’t be what Lance thinks of him, right? Right?

“ _ Said if I didn't know, and if I didn't know, well if I didn't know that you loved me would you tell me? _ ” Keith whips his head up to stare at Lance, just in time to see the frontman look down at him and wink. 

His soul has left his body. This can’t be real. He’s dreaming.

He zones out for a second and snaps back to reality as Lance lets out a throaty noise, crooning into the microphone, “ _ ooh, you, you’re so bold, my wanting to kiss you still is not enough, _ ” oh, now he  _ knows _ that this can’t be about him. Really, he’s never even met Lance, how could the frontman want to kiss him? Keith chastises himself internally for imagining, _ hoping _ , that Lance was singing about him, even for an instant. Regardless, he loses himself to the music, listening to the plucky tune of the piano and the rhythmic beating of the snare drums with rapt attention.

“ _ I’m getting stronger, by the minute, _ ” Lance swings his arm up and flexes his bicep, winking at the crowd, and Keith can’t help but roll his eyes, his anxiety melting away at Lance’s silly behavior. The frontman slides forward on his knees with the next line, precariously close to the end of the stage, and sings huskily into the microphone with his head thrown back, “ _ and once I slip into position I'll swing you and turn you all around!”  _ A few women in the crowd wolf-whistle and make lewd comments that Keith balks at, though Lance soaks them in, as he pushes back onto his feet and moves into the first chorus, telling whoever he was singing to that they were, “ _ the sweetest thing I’ve found _ ,”  and, “ _ you’re killing me, oh _ ,” before pausing for a moment and flicking his eyes back down to Keith. 

He freezes under his gaze, heart pounding loud in his eardrums, while anxiety pours ice into his veins. Those stormy blues don’t leave him while he croons into the microphone, voice saccharine and dripping with flirtation, “ _ but I like your _ ,” his lips part into a wide smile, shining through in the words he sings, “ _ red top and matching bottoms, y’know the ones, the ones you got on _ ,” Keith is suddenly  _ very aware _ of his outfit, of the red leather jacket and the well-worn Converse on his feet, and his skin starts to burn in a similar shade, “ _ put ‘em all over your skinny self but don’t cover your tattoo _ ,  _ woo! _ ” Lance spins on one foot, and Keith presses his hands to his face, trying to change the color of his cheeks with willpower alone.  _ Fuck _ , this cannot be real.

Lance sings, swings, croons, and rolls through the rest of the song, driving Keith crazy the whole time, especially with the furtive glances cast his way and that  _ grin _ , the occasional wink, and Keith is just surprised he hasn’t spontaneously combusted yet because  _ fuck _ his face is so hot that it might as well be magma. He’s pretty sure the blush on his cheeks has spread down the pale expanse of his neck to settle on his chest by now, but he can’t help it. It  _ really  _ seems like Lance is singing to him and it embarrasses and flatters him and is something that he thought would only happen in his wildest dreams.

When the frontman belts out the final lyric, calling whoever he was singing to an, “ _ opportunistic lover _ ,” the crowd all surge forward with cheers and calls for an encore. Keith has to untangle his vocal chords, but he manages to join them in their demand for more. Lance looks towards the rest of the band and shrugs his shoulders, that grin on his lips probably permanently stuck there. Hunk twirls his drumstick and nods, to the audience’s sheer joy, and Lance turns back to them to launch into a cover of “Rock With You” by Michael Jackson. Keith, although he’s usually rooted in one spot when it comes to listening to Quintessence, worms his way out of the crowd and in the direction of Allura’s office,  _ needing _ to speak to Shiro right then and there.

The door is locked when he reaches the room at the end of the hall, though he can hear them talking and laughing behind it, muffled and indecipherable. He knocks on the door, his heart still pounding in his eardrums, as he thinks of the way Lance sang that last song. The club sounds far away, like he’s underwater, and even Shiro sounds far away as he opens the door and greets him. Keith stares at him, brows furrowed in confusion, the question on the tip of his tongue, though he can’t even voice it, not when Shiro glances at his phone and his eyes widen and he turns Keith around forcibly, facing where he came.

“Keith, Keith, my best friend, could you go get Allura and I our usual orders? Just tell Coran, he’ll know what to do, okay? Thanks, bye,” Shiro told him, talking quickly, with a certain air of nervousness underlying his words. Keith whips his head around, about to protest, the reason why he came here floating back to him through the muck that is his thoughts, but the door ends up closed and locked in his face.

He figures he can talk to him when he comes back with their drinks, though he’s none too happy about being sent as errand boy. Keith stuffs his hands into his pockets, trying not to let his thoughts linger on Lance for too long, and heads down the hall towards the club once more. He knows that, if he thinks about it for too long, he’ll end up overthinking and burning himself out, but,  _ fuck _ , he wants to know what that song meant. He needs to talk it over with someone that has a more rational mind, that won’t jump to conclusions or drive himself  _ crazy _ with their own thought process. Shiro was just the guy that he could talk with, and he trusted him with his life, so he knew that they could talk this through. Once he got their damn drinks.

Keith manages to worm his way to the front of the crowd gathered at the bar. It seemed like everyone had moved from the dance floor to the bar after Quintessence’s set, and Keith had to fight his way to the front, and had to hail down Coran and give him Shiro’s and Allura’s order. The man grinned, the orange moustache on his upper lip wriggling slightly as he nodded and moved to make their drinks. Keith slumped against the cool granite of the bar, still trying to coax himself into not thinking of Lance and what that song meant. He was in the middle of trying to remember the women who had been standing around him and if any of them were wearing red when someone grabbed his shoulder.

He sighs softly, not really in the mood to be accosted, especially by someone who was likely a drunk clubber that probably thought he was a girl, and turns to tell this person such. His words die on his tongue as he follows the hand on his shoulder up the expanse of a caramel-colored forearm, along the rucked-up sleeve on a slightly defined bicep, over the curve of his shoulder and up the expanse of his long neck, to settle on a face that he’d been watching from afar for months now, on a face he’d seen this close through his computer screen only, in still photos and silly Vines. His words are dead, his breath is caught in his throat, and it seems like the rest of the club fades away as his focus falls to a pinpoint where they are right now, with Lance McClain touching his shoulder and smiling at him like he was the only person in the room. He watches in slow motion as the frontman’s mouth opens, the voice he’d been obsessed with for months directed at  _ him _ .

“Hey, come here often?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, let me know what you think :)

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHTY THAT'S THE FIRST CHAPTER!! 
> 
> First, if you're interested in listening to the song that Quintessence played in this chapter, the name of the song is "Rock Your Body" by Justin Timberlake! Link is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSVHoHyErBQ
> 
> Secondly, if you decided to give it a read, thank you so much for doing so!! This is mine and Evan's little brain baby so I hope you liked it so far! If you do like it, leave a comment and let me know what you think! As always, thank you for reading! Come bother me at tumblr (@cawaiiey, APOLOGIES FOR ALL THE OVERWATCH BEFOREHAND IM OBSESSED) and, we'll see you in the next chapter!! 
> 
> See you next time!!


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